


Mr and Mrs Smith

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Monsters, Mystery, Or Is It?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 30,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7666114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's a BBC production assistant with delusions of grandeur; he's a photo-journalist with the same. Neither of them have time to moonlight as private investigators, but here they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flying Solo

There is an apple box in the bathroom. She has to stand on it to see her reflection in the mirror over the sink, as she teases her hair into something more bouffant for the evening. Still too short for a beehive, but rapid backcombing and judicious application of more hairspray makes her vaguely presentable.

“There’s supper on the stove, yeah?” she calls.

Tom doesn’t respond, either annoyed that she’s straight in and out of the flat or lost in a scholarly dream. She can’t tell which from in here. A slick of bright red lipstick, hastily blotted, and she’s ready.

“Did you hear me?” she says, picking up her handbag from the sofa and hastily riffling through her arsenal. Address book, business cards, cigarette case and matches. The lipstick from her pocket and a tiny bottle of No 5. Umbrella in the stand by the door. _Good to go._

“Don’t go,” he says, finally turning to look at her.

She makes a face. “C’mon, don’t be that way. It’s my job.” She crosses to him, taking ink stained fingers in hand, brushing an errant curl back from his forehead. “I take it you had a bad day?” His desk is strewn with scraps of crumpled paper, scribblings out. The only pristine piece is the one loaded into his typewriter.

“I know I’m close,” he says. “Stay with me. Talk to me. We’ll crack it together, we always do.”

“Oh, Tom.” She’s sorely tempted; always a sucker for those earnest blue eyes. “I promised Simon. We can talk when I’m back.”

He pulls his hand free, colder now. “I’ll be asleep.”

His sulks pass like summer storms, always have. “I’ll wake you up,” she returns lightly.

“No, you won’t!” he snaps, and she takes a step back in surprise at this outburst. He sighs, ashamed of his reaction but still annoyed. “Clara, how long are you going to keep playing this game?”

“What game?”  

“This… girl about town confection.”

She bites down her first response, frowning herself now. “It’s my _job_ ,” she repeats. “One of us has to earn some money.” He blanches at that piece of cruelty; one she immediately regrets. “Sorry, Tom. I shouldn’t have…” But the end of that sentence eludes her, because it’s the truth of the matter as she sees it. “Look, I’ve really got to go.”

“Yeah,” he replies blankly, picking up his pen again; turning his back to her. “See you later.” 

“Supper,” she reminds. “On the stove.” He makes no reply.

She lets the door slam behind her, hoping the crash can be a full stop to their row as she heads out into town. No such luck; words she should have said remain on the tip of her tongue, all the way to the bus stop.

A scowl is still resident on her forehead when the Routemaster pulls up. “Cheer up love,” says the conductor as she fumbles for her change. “It might never happen.”

She gives him a weak smile in response, because what’s the point in arguing? Finds a seat by the window, debating a cigarette. They’re a limited resource at the moment with the budget so tight. _Better to save it_ , she tells herself, although being sensible does nothing for her temper.

She dismounts in drizzly Soho, unsheathing the big black umbrella as she splashes through the streets towards the Old Place. _A game_ , she seethes; as if negotiating dingy clubs and leery managers is _fun_ for her, after a day being patronised on the production floor.

“Wotcha Clara. You alright?” Dora’s cheerful greeting finally cuts through her brooding. She snaps to attention, bright smile replacing her scowl in an instant.

“Fine, thanks,” she replies, motioning to her friend to join her under the umbrella. “You ready for tonight’s showcase?”

“Can’t be worse than last week’s, can it?” An old joke, always funny. Together they have suffered through interminable hours of ‘up and coming’ musicians; an endless parade of vaguely pretentious pretty boys and Beatles impersonators, interspersed with the occasional star.

“Here’s hoping.”

Dora gives her an appraising look. “I said I’d meet my Ronnie there. You bin rowing with your fella again?”

“What makes you say that?”

“’Cos most young lads would be queueing up to come to a jazz club with a girl like you, and here you are flying solo.”

Clara nods thoughtfully as they reach the door of the club. “And there I was thinking you were psychic.”

“I wish.”

* * *

“Well, what a load of shit that was,” says Ron, and she’s inclined to agree.

“No one bookable.” _What a waste of time_.

Dora is shrugging on her Afghan, cigarette dangling from her lips. “Mind your language, dear,” she says, perfect imitation of a prim and proper housewife, before dissolving into pearls of raucous laughter. “Come on. It’s Friday and we ain’t got work tomorrow. Let’s make a night of it.”

Clara bites her lip, thinking of Tom at home and the row awaiting. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Yes, you should,” Ron says. “You want be a chase producer, this is where you make your contacts. So the stage was shit tonight, so what? You want to make the managers come to you anyway, not hang around in dive bars waiting for a star to hitch wagon to.”

“Ooo-er,” mocks Dora. “Hark at him. Thinks he knows what he’s talking about, doesn’t he?” But she pecks her husband on the cheek, proud, before going to fetch their umbrellas. 

Clara trails after them through the mizzling rain, to the hotel bar where Simon will be holding court after dinner. It’s the usual mess of people; a few faces she recognises from the BBC studios mixing with mod-ish young musicians, models and actors. Ronnie heads to the bar to fetch their drinks as she scans the crowd to find a likely looking group. 

She settles on a slightly tweedy looking group of young men, several of whom have scandalously long hair. She suspects they are students, and probably comedians. Squaring her shoulders, she accepts her gin from Ronnie and goes over to make her introduction.

“Hello,” she says, taking a nervous sip as they turn and openly stare, “…I’m Clara Oswald.”


	2. Delusions of Grandeur

At least the mirrors in the ladies’ room are low enough that she can reapply her lipstick without the aid of scaffolding.

“Beautiful!” proclaims Dora, fussing with her own peroxide locks and now very drunk. “A regular Hepburn.”

“Haha, shut up.”

“Whadda y’reckon Clara?” she says, pouting. “I think I’m more of a Barbara Windsor.”

Clara snorts, although the comparison well made. “Well, we’re neither of us Shrimpton, that’s for sure.”

Ronnie and the rest of the studio team have commandeered a large table across the bar. Their route back takes them past the eponymous star of their program, Simon Tees. He is absorbed in expansive conversation with a lizard-eyed young man in a kipper tie. She dawdles slightly in shepherding Dora, wanting to eavesdrop.

“No, I’m happy enough with things as they are at the moment, can’t complain,” says Simon.

“ITV aren’t sniffing around?”

“Well, they’re always _sniffing_ aren’t they? But they haven’t made any offers I’d be willing to accept. And there are other perks.”

“Yes, I met the blonde bombshell earlier. Nice to look at, but a mouth on her like a bloody fishmonger.”

Clara stiffens, heart sinking, and tries to drag Dora away. “No love,” she says, cold with anger and seeming suddenly soberer. “Let’s hear till the end shall we?”

 “Who’s the little dark haired one? Dressed like a beatnik.”

“Clara? She’s tricky. Acts like she’s some sort of blue stocking but _very_ easy on the eye. Drives the writers crazy, you know what those University types are like. All hoping they can be the one to unbutton the buttoned-up little madam.”

“You weren’t tempted?”

Simon makes a so-so gesture. “Maybe. But she’s too short for a mini-skirt and those Lancastrian vowels would need working out.”

Dora’s hand is vice-like on her arm. “They’re drunk,” she hisses, through the sudden ringing in Clara’s ears, “and they’re stupid pigs. Just forget it.”

“Yeah,” Clara manages as they find their way back to the studio team. “I know.” She gives Dora a weak grin, trying to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. _Fuck it._

She pours herself a glass of cheap red wine, drains it, and makes an immediate start on a second.

* * *

The door to the balcony is pushed open, light and noise from the party spilling out into the damp dark.

She pauses, about to light a previously forbidden cigarette. “Hello?”

“Oh. I didn’t realise there was somebody else out here,” says the intruder. “Sorry.”

“It’s not a private party,” she returns. “I just fancied a moment of peace and quiet.”

“Ah.” He hovers in the penumbra of the door, and curiosity gets the better of her.

“Do you have a light?” The stranger steps closer, reaching into the breast pocket of an immaculate blue suit to produce a lighter. A flicker of flame in the dark, and she gratefully inhales the nicotine rush. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He is older, bearded, and she might have pegged him as an intellectual if it wasn’t for the camera slung around his neck. “I’m Clara, by the way,” she says, extending her free hand. “Clara Oswald.”

He stares at it for a moment, as if wondering what to do. “John,” he says eventually, shaking the proffered digits. “John Smith.”

“So, you’re not from around here either, Mr Smith?”

“Ah, no. What gave me away?” he asks wryly.

“The nose,” she jokes, although from the way he fingers the bridge of his aquiline example he might think she’s actually serious. “You’re a photographer?”

“Yes,” he answers, “although maybe not the kind you’re familiar with.”

“What kind would that be?”

“Fashion?” he hazards.

“What makes you say that?”

“I assumed you were a model,” he says stiffly, and startles at her laughter.

“Am I not a bit short?”

He blinks, the conversation appearing to have run away from him. “Sorry,” he says again, making one last valiant stab at communication. “If you’re not a model, why are you here?”

“ _Good_ question.” She laughs again, more bitterly this time. “I work for the BBC. I’m a production assistant with delusions of grandeur.”

“Ah. Well, I’m a photo-journalist with the same. May I?” He raises the camera.

“Why not?” she says, spreading her arms in sardonic mockery.

He clicks away. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They appear to have reached the limit of his conversational repertoire. “Well. It was nice to meet you, Miss Oswald,” he says, although his tone suggests his words are more formality than feeling.

“And you, Mr Smith,” she returns in mockery, as he beats a retreat inside.

* * *

The rain has stopped when she dismounts the last bus, a fitful wind blowing late night detritus down the streets of Shoreditch. She has a curious love of times like this, when the world is abed and the empty streets could belong to anyone; all made eldritch by streetlight.

She turns the corner and almost jumps out of her skin. There is a monstrous figure haloed in the lamps of her building, blocking the way home. She shrinks back, trying to swallow her sudden terror, think sensibly. There’s a Police Box on the High Street. Maybe she should run back and call for assistance.

She turns on her heel and almost walks straight into John Smith, who looks about as perplexed to see her again as she is him. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asks.

“Are you following me?” she demands, redoubling her grip on her umbrella. It has a sharp metal point that could do serious damage if wielded in anger.

He puts his hands up, placatory; clearly fearing a jab from an offensively wielded brolly if he isn’t careful. “I live here,” he says carefully.

“Where?”

He’s looking at her like she's completely insane, perhaps for good reason. She forces herself to take a step back, lowering the umbrella slightly. “In the block of flats just round the corner.”

“How long for?”

“What’s today’s date?”

“Seventh of February.”

“What year?”

It is her turn to give him a suspicious look. “Nineteen sixty-five. Are you _alright_ —?”

“Then for about eighteen hours,” he continues. “I moved in this morning.” His beard twitches, the suggestion of a smile underneath.

“Oh. Ok. Sorry,” she says, although she’s not sure she really means it.

“No, it’s fine. Late at night, strange bloke innocently minding his own business walking down his own street—”

“I _said_ I’m sorry,” she says, smiling at his sarcasm in spite of herself. “There’s something blocking the door. That’s why I surprised you.”

“ _What_?”

She inclines her head, inviting him to peer around the corner and see the strange tableau for himself.

 “Well, that’s fairly bizarre.”

Emboldened by his presence she risks another glance. “Oh! Wait a second. I know what that is.”

“Do tell,” he says drily.

“It’s a Roboman.”

He looks doubtful; not entirely sure she’s not making fun of him. “A robo… man?”

“Yeah, they’re from that new kid’s TV show; they film it in the studios next door to ours.”

“So what’s it doing out on the streets at one o’clock in the morning?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she admits. “Maybe it’s someone’s idea of a joke?”

“Bloody strange sense of humour,” he mutters into his beard. “Come on then.”

“Come on where?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d quite like to go home.”

She looks doubtfully at the monster again. Of course he’s right; it’s a piece of equipment, not something that can actually hurt her. The menace the creature seems to exude is merely tribute to the excellent work of her prop-master colleagues. She knows all of this, but somehow it is very little comfort when facing the damn thing in the dark. Still, pride is at stake here. “Ok,” she says.

They advance cautiously, the Roboman remaining still as a statue. _Of course it does, you idiot_ , she chides herself. _It’s a made up villain, not a real threat_ —

The fingers of the cyborg suddenly flex and she swallows a shriek.

“Is there someone _inside_ it?” whispers Mr Smith, considerably less cool and comfortable now.  

“There must be,” she hisses back. “Someone playing silly buggers.”

Five feet away, four, and the creature starts to hiss ominously. It turns its head towards them, opening a mouth filled with orange light and jagged metal teeth. This is beyond any special effect Clara has ever seen; she finds she is frozen in the beam of light, horror-struck as the monster advances. Gloved hands reach out for her, as if the creature means to throttle her—

 _Clang!_ Mr. Smith has grabbed the umbrella from her unresisting fingers and taken a swing at the monster.

 _This doesn’t make sense_ ; she wants to say. The men in the costume are flesh and blood, there’s no way it should ring like an empty gong when struck. And yet it does, again, as Mr. Smith parries a blow from its arm, returns. The metal tip of the umbrella strikes home, striking sparks from the metal breast plate, but still the thing advances.

“Run!” he shouts, breaking the spell it holds over her. She sprints for home, fumbling for her key, struggling to unlock the heavy door.

The lock yields and she is inside. “Come on!” she yells. He breaks off his combat, sprinting pell-mell towards her. She slams the door shut as he crosses the threshold, inches to spare.

 “What the hell?” he breathes as she pulls across the deadbolts. There is a dull thump from outside. She flinches, but the door appears a sturdy defence.  Another scraping thump, and then the sound of retreating footsteps.

“I have no idea,” she gasps. “Maybe someone put something in the drinks at the party.” She pats him on the arm in a reassuring way. “Find somewhere calm and safe to lie down. You’ll be alright.”

He rubs his arm awkwardly, as if her touch has burned. “Right,” he says, “Okay. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She takes the stairs two at a time, determined to put some distance between them, to leave the precise location of her flat a mystery. Possibly she should make a call to the police, but what would she say? ‘I was attacked by a cyborg from science fiction television?’ They’ll just think she’s mad, on drugs or worse.

Tom is, as promised, asleep. The hotpot she left has boiled dry on the stove. Greasy newspaper wrappings indicate a fish and chip supper they can ill afford was consumed in preference, which just about puts the tin lid on things. She sits down heavily on their sofa, head in hands, and finally allows herself to cry.   


	3. Big Break

She looks up from stuffing envelopes to see Ronnie approaching her desk with a calculating expression.

“No,” she says firmly.

He grins. “Ah, come on Clara. I haven’t even asked—”

“You don’t need to,” she says, picking up another stack, “I can tell by your face. It’s my day off. I’m only here for a couple of hours to help Dora with these.”

“What if I’m about to offer you your big break?”

“Then what’s the catch?”

“Who says there’s a catch?”

“There’s _always_ a catch.”

He makes a satisfied little noise. “You’re learning fast. Look, if you do this, I’ll owe you a favour and so will Gordo Jones.”

 _That_ name makes her ears prick up. “You’re playing me like a fiddle. What’s the Head of Drama got to do with this?”

“His weirdo kids’ vehicle is about to go arse over tit next door if they can’t get someone with half a brain to help in production control room.”

“ _What?_ ”

“See, I wouldn’t come in here bothering you if it was rubbish, would I?”

She sighs, putting down her envelopes. “Fine. But I’ll be calling in _both_ those favours some time.”

* * *

She is directing cameras when she spots him, lurking just off set. Ever the professional, she waits for the director’s cry cut before nudging Ronnie.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Who? Oh, the beardy bloke over there? He’s a photographer from the _Radio Times_. Come to get some shots of the actors on set with the rubber monsters. Why do you ask?”

“Has he visited the set before?”

“Er, yeah, last week I think. To do some interviews.”

“The bastard! It _was_ all some bloody joke.”

“Clara, _what_ are you talking about?”

She growls. “I’ll tell you later. First, I have to go and give him a piece of my mind.”

He does a convincing double-take when she appears from the wings. “Miss Oswald? What are you doing here?”

“Photo journalist?” she snaps, folding her arms.

He shrugs. “I did mention the delusions of grandeur. I thought _you_ said you worked next door?”

“I do. I’m in here today as a favour. So, was that your idea of a joke then? The business with the Roboman?”

“What?”

“Got a mate to put the suit on, give a girl a scare? Well, it didn’t work,” she huffs, “d’you hear me? I wasn’t scared.” 

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, attempting to make some sense of her sharp accusations. “I took this job to find out more about this production,” he says slowly, “after the… strangeness the other night.”

She shakes her head, triumphant. “No; _you_ visited set last week to interview the actors.”

“Ye-es. But on Saturday. After I took this job.” He has the air of a man talking someone down from the roof.

 Uncomfortable silence balloons. “Oh,” she manages.

“Yes, well…” He struggles to find pretext for a hasty exit. “It’s been a pleasure again, Miss Oswald, but I should probably go and get some photographs now…”

“Yes, of course. Sorry, I—” But even her quick wits can’t find an end to that sentence that makes her sound like a sane and sensible human being. She lets him drift away looking vaguely discomfited.

Just to compound the awkwardness, Ronnie has followed her down from the control room. “You alright?” he says, all innocence. “You’ve gone a funny colour.”

“Just… wishing the ground would swallow me up.”

“Ah, he’s a bit old for you anyway.”

“No! It wasn’t like that—not that kind of…” She blushes a deeper crimson as Ronnie grins.

“Ain’t cha ever heard? When you’re in a hole, stop digging.”

“Oh, shut up,” she replies, swatting him.

 _But_ _Mr Smith has a point_ , she thinks, as she follows her friend. She’s tried to put the entirety of Friday out of mind when really, all the answers she needs to solve the Roboman mystery are probably right here, on the _Fantastic Worlds_ set.

* * *

She lurks in the lee of the ornamental fountain outside the studios, twisting her hands and not at all sure of what she is doing. After what seems like an age, he emerges.

“Hey,” she says, giving him an awkward little wave.

He takes an actual step back when he realises who it is approaching him. “Um,” he manages, looking pained, “I’m afraid—”

“I checked the props log. No one signed out the suit.”

This makes him pause, suddenly thoughtful. “So, who doesn’t need to sign? Who holds the keys?”

“That’s the thing,” she says, ahead of herself, “I _know_ Jack the props-master and there’s just… no way he was hanging around in Shoreditch on Friday night.”

“And Jack has the only set?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” He rocks back on his heels. “A mystery then. Unless someone else has made a copy of the keys and decided to take a monster suit out for a stroll on Friday night… Or someone made a copy of the _suit_ for themselves?”

“Who’d do that though? Dress up like that?”

He shrugs. “People never cease to amaze me.”

She laughs at his deadpan delivery. “Sounds like it. I guess we’ll never know, then. How unsatisfying.” Their conversation appears to have reached a natural conclusion and she should probably let the man go, before firmly cementing her reputation as the crazy lady of television centre. “Look… I’m sorry for accusing you…” she tries.  

“Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly. “If you do find out anything else... Well, I suppose you already know where I live. Ha-ha.” He looks vaguely horrified at the thought.

“Ha-ha,” she parrots, smiling sickly. “Good evening, then, Mr Smith.”

“Good evening, Miss Oswald.”

* * *

Tom is waiting for her when she returns, pacing the flat in a state of high excitement, his pipe clamped between his teeth. It’s a new addition, the pipe, and she’s not quite sure how she feels about it. It does make him look the part of leftist intellectual, but it’s a bit fuddy-duddy for her taste.

“Good day?”

Her heart lifts at this piece of consideration. Perhaps things between them are finally settling down. “Yeah,” she replies, “amazing. I got to work in the production control room.”

“That’s great!” he says, and he means it, even though she suspects he has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.

“Good day for you too?” she guesses. There is a stack of typed manuscript pages she can see on the desk, always a good sign.

“Yes, yes,” he enthuses. “The writer’s circle is _really_ helping clarify things regarding my protagonist’s Stakhanovite tendencies.”

“Oo, I do love it when you talk literary, Mr Cooper,” she jokes. “C’mon. Tell me more while I get the supper on.”

* * *

It is later.

Tom sighs happily, turning away from her in his sleep. She studies the back of his head for a while in the twilight of their bedroom, before slipping out of bed and shrugging on her dressing gown. She pads into the living room, where her cigarettes are waiting on the table. She lights one; wanders over to the window to let the smoke curl outside. It’s another wet night, the streets quiet and empty.

 _Are you happy_? She prods herself. A good day, a chapter written. That’s what she wants, yeah? Tom to finish the difficult second novel, make good on all that intellectual promise the reviewers talked about after his first. Become the best-seller she has always told him he could be, back when they were just kids.

She still believes it. He’s her oldest friend, the boy next door from Blackpool. Their being here in London is like a fairy tale. Two clever kids from the North making the most of everything the capital has to, while the world gradually turns on its head. Friends back home think it will stop; that the new world order that’s emerging can’t last. But the genie’s out of the bottle as far as she’s concerned. A wife, a mother—she wants those things of course—but there’s something else; something _more_.

And it’s here, for the taking. She can _taste_ it.  

 _We’ll make it work_ , she tells herself. They always have. She stubs out the cigarette, about to turn away from the window, when movement catches her eye.

 _Him again_ , she realises with a jolt. John Smith, stalking through the wet night towards home. She wonders where he might have been, and then questions why she cares. Uncomfortable, she pulls across the curtain and returns to bed.  _It’s just the loose thread_ , she tells herself, the lingering mystery of the Roboman unsolved filling her with questions she can’t answer.

When sleep finally claims her she dreams unpleasantly of running down featureless corridors, unable to find whatever it is she’s lost and looking for.

She wakes to the sound of frenzied knocking.


	4. A Cry for Help

“Who the _fuck_ …?” manages Tom, squinting in the dawn as he struggles to find his glasses.

“I’ve got it.” She lays a placatory hand on his arm, encouraging him to lie back down. Her heart is thumping as she crosses to their door. She tugs the knot of her dressing gown tight, heat already rising in her face. She’s not at all sure what she’s going to say to him—

Except it isn’t him. Dora, her blonde bob dishevelled, collapses inside as soon as she opens the door. Her face is red and puffy from crying. “Oh Clara,” her friend sobs. “I am sorry but I didn’t know where else to go!”

“Dora, what’s _happened_?” she manages, in genuine shock.

“It’s Ronnie,” wails her friend. “He was only going out for a quick drink with the _Fantastic Worlds_ crew to celebrate today but he never came home!”

“Okay, okay.” Clara shepherds her to the sofa where she collapses, alarmingly boneless. “Look, it can’t be the first time a quick drink turned into an all-nighter…”

“Maybe for most but _not_ my Ronnie.” Anger lends strength, almost a relief to Clara, although she now finds herself bearing the brunt of it. “He’s not like those other blokes, Clara, you know him! He always, _always_ comes home…”

“Okay,” Clara repeats. “I believe you, Dora, I do.”

“He’s dead, ain’t he? Oh, God, he must be—”

“ _No_ , Dora, let’s be sensible. Let’s rule out a few things before we panic, okay? Where was he drinking?”

“Bunch of Grapes near the studios.”

“Alright.” Clara retrieves a dog-eared _A to Z_ map from the bookshelf, finds the relevant page. “If he got into some trouble, where might they take him? Hammersmith hospital’s fifteen minutes away. And Notting Hill Police Station is about the same. Why don’t we ring them first?”

Dora nods, biting her lip. “Alright,” she manages.

“My landlady has a ‘phone. Sure she won’t mind us using it, seeing as it’s an emergency… Just, just let me grab my clothes…”

Tom is dressing in an irritable hurry when she re-enters. “What on Earth, Clara?”

“Hey, come on,” she demurs, pulling a jumper over her head, “she’s in a panic.”

“Bloody ridiculous,” he huffs, stuffing shirt into his trousers. “Hysterical media types.”

“Thomas Cooper!” The words of her grandmother are on her lips before she can stop them. “Say that again and you’ll feel the flat of my hand!”

“Well, I’m sorry but it’s—it’s not right,” he says, although he’s losing bluster by the second in the face of her scowl.

“No, it’s not. Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

“Your boyfriend,” he snaps back. “You know, the one who never gets a look in?”

There’s a blazing row to be had on the back of that comment, but right now there’s only numb shock. “What?”

“Just, sort your mad friend out,” he says, tugging his hair. “We’ll talk later. I’d better go. Overslept anyway. Want to go back to the writer’s circle.”

“Tom…”

“No, later,” he manages, hand twisting in his hair as he storms out of the flat.

Dora is ashen. “Oh, God, Clara I’m sorry, it’s all my fault—”

“No. No it’s not, don’t worry.” She forces herself to smile briefly. “Something’s gotten into him but we’ll sort it out later. We always do. Come on.” She takes her friend’s hand. “Let’s go make some ‘phone calls.”

* * *

_Rat-a-tat-tat._ Her second smart knock goes ignored as the first.

_Of course_ , Clara thinks. _Always when it’s bloody important!_

“I don’t think she’s there,” says Dora, after the third time of knocking. “Clara love, look, I can go and find a payphone…”

“I’m _sure_ she’s in,” Clara says desperately, raising her fist for a third and final attempt.

A door opens down the corridor. “If you’re looking for Mrs Winkings,” says John Smith, “I’m afraid she left about twenty minutes ago.”

Clara goggles for a second in surprise. “Oh. Right. Oh. Thanks.”

He clears his throat, awkward as ever. “I couldn’t help but overhear… you need to use the ‘phone?”

“Yes,” Clara manages, “yes, that’s right.”

“You can use mine. Um. If it’s urgent.”

“Oh thank you, thank you!” bursts Dora. She practically pushes past him in her desperation.

“No problem,” he manages faintly; definitely a lie if Clara’s any judge. She hovers for a second on the threshold, not sure if she is really included in his offer of assistance. After a second or two curiosity wins out over propriety, and she steps inside after them both.

Dora is already dialling numbers on the rotary ‘phone at the end of his hallway. “Hello? Hello, is that Hammersmith hospital?”

“So, ah,” he tries, “can I offer you… a cup of tea?”

She could laugh at his pained stiffness, as if he’s reading from an internal script. “Nah,” she says, “I’m good thanks.” This is enough to knock him entirely off balance, so she throws him a lifeline. “What’s in _there_?”

She points at a door ajar; in her version of the flat a small cupboard. His copy glows with red safelight.

“My darkroom.” His beard twitches in that way she already recognises, cloaking a smile. “Actually, I have a photograph developing you might like to see.”

She follows him inside, giving Dora a modicum of privacy as she makes her enquiries. “Oh!” she gasps, immediately confronted with her own face. “From the balcony.”

He’s a good photographer, she’s almost annoyed to concede. The light, the composition of the frame, her mocking smile – he’s made her into a work of art. It’s a strange feeling, to see herself so clearly not as a reflection, but a moment; frozen in time.

“One of my better pieces,” he says, softer than he’s ever sounded. That twitch again. “I could probably even sell that.”

“Do I get royalties if you do?” she jokes, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. His face clouds once again, walls going back up. “Sorry,” she says hurriedly. “Just a joke.”

“Ah.”

In a desperate bid to avoid further ground-swallow-me-now shame she studies the pegged works. There are other posed shots: a housewife with her baby in a pram, cigarette dangling. A dock worker in a flat cap; several candid street views.

“Where did you take that one?” she asks, pointing.

He blinks; she can almost see the cogs turning. “Near Loftus Park. Why?”

Her finger hovers over the black and white image. “Do you know what that is?”

“Particularly hideous statuary?”

“No,” she breathes, moving under the photograph now, frowning up at it. “That’s a Martian Warrior.”

“A _what_?”

“From _Fantastic Worlds_. Like the Robomen.”

He pulls a face, sceptical. “Looks like a knock-off terracotta warrior to me.”

“That was a design influence, I’m sure. But I’m _certain_ that’s Martian...”

“Clara?” Dora, hesitant, breaks the spell.

“Any news?”

Dora shakes her head. “No sign of him.” Her bottom lip is wobbling alarmingly.

“Okay. Look, Dora…” She wants to offer assurances, but the words won’t come. “Let’s go back to yours, we can wait for him there together. Thanks for the use of the ‘phone, John.”

He nods. She’s not sure if that’s terse for _you’re welcome_ or just acknowledgement that words have been spoken aloud. Right now there are more important things to worry about, she tells herself, as she supports Dora down the street. The enigma of the stolen props from _Forbidden Worlds_ will just have to be put out of her head…

* * *

_The trouble with trying not to think about things_ , she muses, _is that you end up dwelling on them even more._

The rain has started again as she trudges home. Ronnie remains missing, the distraught Dora now sleeping under the watchful eye of her mother. Perhaps the ongoing mystery is welcome distraction, rather than foolish diversion.  As she turns the corner she can see the flat is dark. Tom is apparently still at writer’s circle. She almost turns on her heel, anger flashing; no way on this _Earth_ that she will sit stewing, waiting for him to return—

“Miss Oswald?”

She jumps for the second time today at the unexpected sound of his voice. “Mr Smith! What’re you doing here?”

“Er,” he says. “Well, in all honesty I was waiting for you. Not all day,” he adds hurriedly. “I just got back and I was wondering if, um.” He clears his throat noisily. “If you want to come and… investigate?”

_Play it cool Oswald!_ “Um, the um, the Martian Warrior thing, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He loses his nerve. “I mean, not If you think—after all it probably was just—”

“I’d love to.”

A beat of silence, eye contact too awkward, blushes so hot it’s a wonder the rain doesn’t sizzle.

“Oh, well, good,” he stutters, grasping his camera box reflexively.

“Loftus Road?” she prompts, before they grind to a complete halt in mutual embarrassment.

He brandishes his umbrella. "Shall we?"


	5. Battlefield Medicine

“It was _definitely_ here.”

“I believe you,” she says, “I saw the photograph.”

“Maybe they decided it was just too hideous?”

She peers through the gap in the hedge, both sheltering under his giant umbrella. “Maybe.” She tilts her head. “But wouldn’t you say those scuffs of mud there look like—?”

“Footprints,” he agrees.

“Perhaps we should come back when it’s light. And I can check the props book at work on Monday.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Okay.”

They trudge back towards their shared block of flats together. “Sorry I wasted your fare.”

“No, it’s ok.” He casts about for something else to say. “I forgot to ask, about your friend.”

“Dora?” She shakes her head. “Ronnie hadn’t turned up when I left.”

“Unusual for him?”

“Very.”

“Hmm.”

She almost laughs at that. “Hmm?”

Her purses his lips, clearly pondering something. “I have some contacts in the police,” he ventures. “I could ask them to… keep an eye out?”

Now she _is_ laughing. “Contacts in the police? What, like you’re some kind of spy?”

“I’m not being funny,” he retorts. “Photo- _journalist_ , remember? I do need informants.”

“I’ll bet.” She regains a modicum of composure. “Have you always been a photographer?”

“Since the war,” he says, stiff again. This she doesn’t push. He’s about the right age to have been a young man in the thick of the fighting, and she’s yet to meet a soldier that returned who wants to talk about what happened.

“How’d you get into it?”

He shrugs. “The world is changing. The old ways of doing things… are dying. And that’s alright. Everything has its time and everything ends. But I feel… It’s nice to have a record, isn’t it? This is how things were. Sometimes just to make sure you never end up there again.” He frowns. “You’re looking at me strangely. You think I’m foolish?”

“No! Not at all. I just, didn’t expect such a philosophical answer.” Most photographers she knows being in it to meet models, after all.

“What about you? Why television?”

“Why not?” she demurs, but feels guilty for brushing off the question after his bared soul. She bites her lip for a moment, and takes the risk. “Like you said, the world’s changing. Television is helping to drive that. Things happen now and everybody sees. You don’t have to wait for a newspaper or the radio report. You can make history, send it out to everyone in the country with a set.”

“I see.”

“Now _you_ look sceptical.”

“I’m just trying to work out how the rubber monsters fit in.”

She laughs again. “They don’t. I work next door. _Forbidden World’s_ is Ronnie’s show.” She meets his eyes for a moment, reaching a decision. “Thank you for your offer. If you can find anything…”

He nods. “Understood.”

They walk on, silence companionable for the first time since they have met. “Oh, there’s actually a shortcut up here,” she says, catching his arm to stop him walking on the long way home. “You can cut through.”

“The cemetery?” He looks sceptical.

“Yeah, c’mon,” she smiles. “You’re not afraid of ghosts?”

He follows her through the gap in the railings rather primly. “How’d you find this?”

“Location scouting,” For all her breezy confidence she’s actually rather glad of his company. It is properly dark now, sooty poplars shading the tumbledown headstones. Somehow she can’t imagine John being mugged; something about his hawkish stare suggests he’ll be more hassle than it’s worth.

She is surprised, therefore, when a dark shape looms out from behind one of the larger mausoleums. His hand is a vice on her arm, pulling her into the penumbra of another crypt. “Use this shortcut a lot, do you?” he hisses.

“Normally in daylight,” she feels obliged to confess.

“Oh, _good_.” He unloops his camera, passing the strap over her neck.

“Er?”

“You’d better have it if there’s going to be a fight.”

“A fight?! For goodness sake, it’s probably just someone else taking a shortcut,” she whispers fiercely.

There is a sound that can only be described as unearthly; a keening wail like the cry of a banshee. All the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“You were saying?”

“What the hell _is_ that?”

“If I had to hazard a guess,” he says, furling his umbrella into battle-readiness, a move surely borrowed from John Steed, “I’d say it’s a Martian Warrior.”

“They were only introduced last week! They haven’t even had any _lines_ yet.”

“Right, okay,” he says, nonplussed. “Does it matter? When I say run—”

But whatever instruction he has is lost, as the creature drops down the roof of their shelter, knocking them both to the floor. For a moment all she can see is stars in her strobing vision. Then the creature is upon her, unleashing a snarling dose of hell.

She reacts instinctively, rolling left, right, squirming to avoid being _squeezed_ by leathery talons. She kicks, pointlessly, against the thick armour. Which doesn’t make _sense!_ She knows for a fact the Warrior armour is hastily slapped together papier-mache. Her feet should be passing straight through to the man in the monster suit, a dwindling part of her argues…

The talons bite home, ending any illusion that the creature is a costumed fantasy. She screams in pain, gives the thing a ringing slap in retaliation. It hesitates for a second, blinking, and an umbrella is suddenly against its throat. It gasps and chokes, clawing at the metal and drooling, an endless moment of slathering horror. Then, suddenly, it is still. For an awful second she is trapped underneath its bulk, until John wrenches the body off of her. His face, lined in cold fury, is for a moment as terrifying as the monster’s maw.

He extends a hand, slippery with mud and blood, and pulls her to her feet. He doesn’t ask if she is okay, how could she be when the world has suddenly descended into madness?

“Who is it?” she rasps, as he bends to the body.

“What. Not who. It’s not a mask,” he says grimly, and she can see it’s true. A bloody gash in the creature’s neck, inflicted by the blunt garrotte of his umbrella, shows scaly flesh is the true hide of their attacker.

 “W-we have to get it to a police—” But her words are lost as a shower of sparks suddenly erupts from the hideous cadaver, momentarily blinding. When their eyes have recovered the body is gone, a scorch mark all that remains.

“I think I’m going mad,” she says eventually, in hollow tones.

“If you are, then I am too.” He shakes his head. “This is real.”

“ _How_ can it be real?”

He catches her outstretched hand, her palm torn by the creature’s claws. “This,” he says, finger tracing a line adjacent to her wounds, “ _this_ , is real.” He screws up his face for a moment, like a man fighting sudden nausea, and shivers. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

* * *

 

“You really don’t have to…” she protests, feeble even to her own ears, as she trails after him.

“I know,” he scowls, missing the point perhaps. “Sit.”

Her legs fold automatically, depositing her in an overstuffed armchair as he clatters about in his kitchen. There is something new at work here now; all of his awkwardness disappeared. A man used to giving orders—and more than that, a man used to having orders _obeyed—_ has taken John’s place.

He returns with a glass of brandy, a bottle of TCP, bandage, needle and thread. She raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“I know what I’m doing,” he reassures, taking her palm.

She winces as she pours antiseptic onto the wound. “What _were_ you?” she finds herself asking. “Before?”

He threads the needle expertly. “I was a Doctor,” he replies, not looking at her. “A long time ago now. Drink the brandy.”

She takes a gulp, grinding her teeth as he pulls the wound in her palm closed. “Battlefield medicine?”

“Of a sort.”

“What made you stop?”

“Haven’t you heard? War’s over.”

“Ha. No, I mean, being a doctor.”

Back and forth winds the bandage, binding up her hand. “I’m… not sure,” he lies softly, and releases her. “Are you okay?”

She drains the rest of the brandy and thinks about it. “No,” she says. “No, I’m definitely not okay.”

“Well, that’s good,” he says, after a beat. “Somethings we should probably not be okay about. Television monsters come to life and roaming the streets of London being one of them.”

“Is that your, um, medical opinion?

“A personal one.”  

“What do we do?” she asks, sure, somehow, that he will have an answer. She is caught in his gimlet gaze for a long moment, blue eyes boring into brown, until he stands up and breaks the spell.

“Who makes the monsters?”

“Jack and the props boys—”

“No, no, not the models. The monsters themselves. Who dreams them into being?”

“The writers?” She pulls a face. “You think we should talk to _them_?”

“Might be worth finding out where they’re getting some of these ideas.”

“Okay,” she says, “I think I can arrange that.”

“Good.”

“Right.”

“Well… I should. I should probably be going home.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be in touch. About the writers.”

“Yes. Yes of course.”

She finds herself lingering on the threshold, sure there is something more that she should say; unable to find the words. “Goodnight John,” she tries.

“Goodnight… Clara.”

With that, he closes the door in her face.


	6. Gaslight

Clara opens her eyes to grey dawn behind bedroom curtains, alone. She traces her fingers across the cool sheets of the bed unshared, trying to rationalise away the knot of tension in her stomach _._

_Tom probably had too much to drink, stayed overnight with a friend. Avoiding another argument. Huh. Or having to make an apology._

She gets up, crosses to the bathroom. Stands on the apple box and meets her doubting eyes in the mirror. There is a dull pain held in the palm of her hand. She unfolds her fingers slowly, taking in the neat stitch-work; proof positive that all of this is more than some unpleasant dream.

Then she sighs, and dresses for the day in place of breaking down.

* * *

Days later, she feels like a fool, stuffing the note under his door.

 _Dear John_ ,

_Writers’ house party, tonight. Kensall Green. Meet me at 1930._

_Clara._

It’s up to him. If he has decided this whole situation is too surreal to manage, she’ll understand. Perhaps Tom will deign to accompany her, anyway. If he’s in a good enough mood when he returns from writer’s circle.

Her palm twinges again.

* * *

_Tap-tap._

An unfamiliar knock. “Come in,” she calls, tucking a last errant strand of hair away in the mirror, “it’s not locked.”

John shuffles in, awkward, immaculate in a black suit today. “I can wait downstairs,” he says, tetchy, “if you need more time.”

“I’m done,” she says. “You look very smart.”

She means it as a friendly compliment, but predictably it only confuses him. He tugs self-consciously at the razor-sharp cuffs of his shirt. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” she says, ploughing on through probably the only option. “Got your camera?”

“Always.” He considers his position for a few seconds. “You look… nice,” he hazards.

“Thanks.” She isn’t a fool. Despite his clumsiness she knows she looks _fantastic_ in her paisley dress, and it is all part of the plan.

They splash through the damp night in silence under his umbrella. John seems to have something on his mind, but the distance between that and his mouth may well be insurmountable. She waits to see. By the time they reach the tube he has clearly ruminated long enough on the issue.

“Um,” he manages, “Your fiancé.”

“What about him?” she says flatly, and thinks: _ten minutes and that’s the best you could come up with?_

“I thought he might be coming too. Being a writer.”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Me too. He isn’t my fiancé, by the way.” She regrets the words as soon as they have left her mouth. Unnecessary, really. Disloyal even. She just wants to show whatever source he has used to find out about Tom doesn’t know everything, she supposes.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” They lapse into silence again, as the train departs the station. “He had his own party to go to,” she adds, when it becomes too uncomfortable to bear.

“Right.”

“Do you have, um…” _Oh God, I’m as bad as he is!_ “A-a girlfriend?” The word doesn’t sit right on a man of his age.

“No,” he says flatly.

“Oh.” She casts around for steps to safer ground. “So, it’s not just the _Forbidden Worlds_ writers at the house party tonight. There’s a couple of the comedians that write for _The Week That Was_ , and some of the other production assistants from my show.”

“Right.”

“Do you know what we’re looking for?” she tries.

“No. I expect we’ll know it if we see it.”

“Right, right. Like the Warrior.”  She clenches her healing hand instinctively.

He gives her an appraising sort of look. “If you’re not comfortable…”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

His beard twitches. “Yeah. Me too.”

* * *

Two hours later she is lightly drunk and largely convinced this was a waste of time. Still, there are less pleasant ways to spend an evening, being entertained by the BBC’s finest minds. She pours herself another drink as John appears at her shoulder, ostensibly also attending to the bar.

“Anything?” he says to the bottles.

She stifles a laugh. “What are you, James Bond?”

“Who?”

“You haven’t seen the films? You should catch one at the matinee, they’re good—”

“Are you drunk?”

She shrugs. “A little.”

He frowns. “Right. Okay...”

“Be that as it may, I haven’t seen anything weird.”

He sighs. “Me neither.”

“It was a good idea, but the writers are just a bunch of sweet, earnest—” She stops mid-sentence as a group of men enter the front room.

“What?” says John, trying to see what has her attention. “The men that just came in? What?”

“That’s Ronnie,” she breathes.

“Ronn— _ah_. Your friend’s missing husband.” He looks pleased with himself for remembering. She ignores this.

“I’m going to _kill_ him,” she declares, moving to put down her drink.

His hand moves with snake-like speed, catching her wrist, holding her in place. “Wait.”

“Are you _kidding_ me? Dora’s been out of her mind—”

“He knows you’re here,” John continues, smiling as if they are joking about something. “And he’s not come to speak to you.”

“How do you know he’s seen me?”

“Clara, everyone in this _room_ has seen you. You stand out. Just, be still for a moment. Pretend that we’re having a conversation.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because a man missing for a week turning up to a party full of his colleagues and no one batting an eyelid apart from you is _definitely_ weird.”

He has a point, she is forced to concede. “ _Fine_. I’ll do it your way. I can always kill him later.” He is still holding her wrist. “Um,” she adds.

“Oh. Right, sorry.” He lets go.

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s shaking hands with people.” John raises his camera, pretending to shoot a picture of Clara, capturing the scene. “Now he’s coming over here. Act normal!”

She goggles at him, at the audacity of him telling _her_ to be normal, but it is too late. Ronnie has reached the bar. “Excuse me sweetheart,” he says.

And it _is_ Ronnie. The eyes are right and the way he stands is right, but his accent is changed. Cut glass and suave. He has new glasses, a different haircut.

“Sorry,” she says, “have we met before?”

He gives her a smile. “I don’t think so. I feel sure I’d remember.” He extends a hand. “Ronald Dacre. I’m a producer with the enemy.”

“Clara Oswald,” she says, “you’re with ITV?”

He clicks his heels. “For my sins.” He gives her another smile. “Excuse me Clara. I’d love to talk more later, but I do just need to speak to Paul over there…” With a polite nod to John, he bustles away.  

Clara considers the melting ice in her gin and tonic, and then drains the glass in one movement. “I have to get out of here,” she says flatly.

“Right, yeah…” says John, not listening, clicking away furiously on his camera.

She leaves him to it, trying not to run across the room to escape; grabbing her coat and slipping out into the wet night before he has even noticed she has gone.

* * *

The sound of footsteps makes her look over her shoulder. To her relief it is John, following after her. There’s something vaguely comical about the way he runs, like a man who has something wrong with his knees, but his longer legs close the distance regardless.  

“Are you okay?”  

“No! No, I’m not okay,” she snaps. “This is madness, this is… it’s insanity. Ronnie is… was… he’s my _friend_. I _know_ that’s him. And yet it’s not. How can—how can you just be _okay_ with that?”

“I’m not. There’s deception here and... something else, something far stranger. But I know it’s real.” He touches his camera. “I have the pictures to prove it.”

She sighs. “Is that what we do now? Take the pictures to Dora? I’m not sure I want to. But the thought of _not_ saying something is worse.”

“I know. Look, we can’t do anything until I’ve developed them. Let’s… let’s go home and—“

“Can we not?” The words are out of her mouth before she quite realises what she’s said. The thought of an empty flat or negotiating Tom’s post-party mood is just too much to bear. There’s no shred of normalcy left in her life, and the temptation to run somewhere, anywhere else, burns like a flame for a moment.

“Where else would we go?”

“I don’t know. For a drink or something. Anything.”

There is a long pause before he replies. “…Okay.”


	7. Happy

The damp has wicked into her coat sleeves and whipped colour into her nose and cheeks. It really is time to be going home, and yet here they are, lingering on the doorstep.

“What will you do now?”

“Develop the films, probably.”

She smiles, despite herself, as water drips from his umbrella onto the tiles. “Do you _ever_ sleep?”

“Oh, sometimes. When there’s nothing better to do.”

“Well, thank you. That was… amazing. I thought I knew London but tonight… Tonight I saw wonders. I really did.”

“Me too.”

She realises she is holding her breath, waiting for something; the other shoe to drop perhaps. He is smiling, happy. Practically giddy by his standards. And so is she.

If she lets that thought settle it will fly away; dissolve into guilt at this betrayal of Tom, of Dora, of everything she thought she is. “Maybe we should do it again some time,” she says instead.

 “I’d like that.”

“Well,” she says again, “on that note… Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Clara.” There is a moment where t she really isn’t sure what is going to happen next, held in strange tension with him.

Then he lowers his eyes, breaking the spell, and allowing her to retreat upstairs to the flat.

* * *

_Gordon’s wine bar, under Charing Cross. Weathered brick arches and candles, like a slice of the Blitz bought back to life_ _—_

_On the beach outside the South Bank Centre, shoes sinking into the sand as his camera clicked_ _—_

She opens her eyes to the noise of Tom clattering about in the kitchen; stretches like a cat under the covers he did not share. She’s not angry with him, she decides. It would be a bit hypocritical, really. But perhaps it’s time—

He enters the room with a mug of tea in one hand and an enormous bunch of flowers in the other. She pushes herself up to her elbows, wrong-footed. “Are you okay?” she says.

He almost winces. “No, Clara. No. I’ve been a world class _shit_ , that’s what I’ve been. I was.. Last night I realised. I’ve been cross with you because everything you do here seems to go well, and I just can’t finish this bloody book, and I’ve been... well, I think _blaming_ you somehow.”

Her mouth drops open. “Go on,” she hears herself saying.

“Anyway, I’ve come to my senses. You’re my best friend. I should be happy you’re doing so well. I _am_ happy. Here.”  He thrusts the flowers at her. Roses, delicately perfumed. They are beautiful, and probably expensive to boot.

“Thank you.” She tries not to think about the impact of the gift on their finances this month; it seems very churlish.

“I’m making breakfast in bed for you,” he says, “and then I thought… well, maybe we could go for a walk somewhere?”

“I’d like that,” she says, smiling. “Let me just put these in some water—”

“No, no, I’ll do it.” He swaps flowers for her tea. “I’ll just be in the kitchen finishing up. Won’t be a moment.”

“Okay.” She waits until he is safely clanging about amongst the pots and pans, puts her tea down carefully before collapsing back onto the mattress.

_Fuck!_

* * *

There is a business card, pinned to paperwork on top of her desk. She picks it up cautiously. It turns out to be an advert for a small Italian restaurant, close to the studios. Turning it over absently she finds John’s curling cursive.

_Clara. Lunch on the other side? John_

She chews her thumb for a moment, pondering the merits of dropping it into the bin. But there is still a mystery to be solved, after all. And she owes it to Dora.

Besides, she tells herself, a friendly lunch is nothing to worry about. Yes, put them back on a platonic footing; set aside one strange, almost magical night of the naked city revealed…

There’s nothing to feel guilty about there, surely?

* * *

“Hello,” she says, dropping into the booth next to him. “Thanks for the invitation.”

“You seemed busy at home,” he says, “with Tom.”

“Um. Yes. Sorry.” She immediately chides herself for the unnecessary apology.

 “Right. Okay.” He gives her a searching look. “Well, I’m glad that you two are happier. I thought we should talk about the photographs.” He indicates a folder, placed between them on the formica table top.

“Of Ronnie?”

He blinks slowly. “Yes.”

“Well, I should probably take them to Dora, shouldn’t I? It seems only fair.”

He nods. “That’s what I thought. Do you want me to come with you?”

 _Yes_ , she wants to say, but it really isn’t appropriate. “Thank you but… no. I think she’d probably appreciate it if things are kept as private as possible.”

“Yes. You’re probably right.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

Awkward silence has descended between them again; whatever strange magic was cast over their nightly wander has clearly faded. The waitress comes, takes their order in the lull.  

“Are you still on commission for the _Radio Times_?” Clara asks, tentative, when the woman withdraws.

“Not after today. I’m going to go down to Brighton for a spell, I think.”

“Oh.” She tries to ignore the kick in her stomach these words deliver. “Do you go there often?”

“Occasionally. There’s a counterpoint to be made to all the media hysteria about our modish friends.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Admittedly not one selling many photographs at the moment. But we’ll see. Hindsight is a marvellous thing. It feels like a piece of future history to me, at any rate.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Let me know if you want to book any delinquents in for a chat with dear Simon.”

“Haha, he’d rather eat his own shoe.”

He smiles, at last, at this image. “Yes, I imagine so.”

The arrival of their food provides cover for the next silence. John picks at his plate like a bird, pushing meatballs around like he’s never see them before. She tries not to stare.

“Well,” she ventures, when she has primly placed her knife and fork at rest. “I hope you have a good time.”

“Yes. I will. You too.” Sensing the endgame, he gestures to the waitress for the bill.

“Let me put in my half—”

He waves her words away, looking irritated. “I invited you.”

“But still—”

“You can pay for the next time,” he says, carefully. “If there is one.”

She has no answer to that, caught in his icy gaze, suddenly queasy. “Mmm,” she manages, swallowing.

He nods, as if that is any sort of answer. The waitress returns, saving her blushes as he pays for the food.

“Right. Well. Goodbye Miss Oswald.”

“Goodbye, Mr Smith,” she answers sadly, feeling curiously diminished as he sweeps out onto the street.

She sits for a moment, trying to push away the mingled anger and sorrow. For distraction, she pulls the folder of photographs towards herself.  There is Ronnie, shaking hands in the front room. Another shot of him talking to Clara, one she didn’t know John had taken…

And here she is again; the final photograph is one taken several hours later. Posing with John’s umbrella and one of the ornate lampposts near the South Bank, like she is Gene Kelly singin’ in the rain. Her expression makes her heart lurch unpleasantly.  _Happy_ , she thinks, looking at her past self’s smile and wondering when such a simple state of being became so damn elusive.


	8. The Question

It is raining again when she knocks on Dora’s door; the fine mizzling sort of rain the wets things wretchedly through. She shields the manila folder from the wet with her coat as she presses Dora’s buzzer. Water drips onto her pale finger. She shudders.

“Hello?”

“Dora? Dora, it’s me—”

“Clara? Oh, my God, what timing! Come up, come up!”

 _Bzzzzzzz_. The harsh sound of the door unlocking only underlines Clara’s sense of foreboding. She climbs the stairs slowly, trying to assemble a coherent sentence in her head to explain what she has seen.

Dora throws open the door of her flat before Clara even has a chance to knock, enveloping her friend in a hug. “He’s just left, you literally _just_ missed him.”

“Who’s left?” Clara asks, stomach turned to lead. “Who was here?”

“Elias of course!”

“Elias…?”

“Yes, he’s only just bleedin’ proposed!” Dora lets Clara go to show her the sizeable rock on her left hand. “Blimey,” she says, as Clara sways, pale, “you look nearly as shocked as I was!”

There is a gaping chasm opening up between Clara and the rest of the world. Mechanically, she manages a sentence on instinct. “Well, you know it just seems so soon—”

“I know! I know! I don’t know _what_ my mother is going to say! But it’s like Elias always says, when you’re this happy, why wait?”

“Well, Dora, I’m flabbergasted. Um.”

“It’s totally insane, I know!”

“Yeah. Yeah, a bit. Er, look, I actually popped over to get you to take a look at something…”

“Oh? Well, I need to start getting ready for tonight but seeing as it’s you.”

“Thanks,” Clara manages, fumbling the folder out of her jacket. “I just wanted to show you this…”

She hands Dora the photo of Ronnie, watches her face ferociously, waiting for the first sign of reality bleeding back through into this strange parallel universe. Recognition, horror, sadness – _anything_.

Dora’s brow wrinkles beautifully. “Who is he?”

“Works for ITV. Thought he reminded me of… someone. From _Forbidden Worlds?_ ” Clara’s words seem to come from a long way away, drowned out by the rushing blood in her ears.

“Really?” Dora shrugs. “I can’t place him.”

“Oh? Oh, ok. Well, congratulations Dora,” she manages faintly, “I’ll let you get ready…”

“Cheers doll. Look, we should have a proper girly catch up and I’ll give you all the details soon, yeah? And I’ll tell you about my night at the Ritz while I’m at it!”

“Sure. Sure, that’d be great.”

“Love you Clara!” With that, the excited Dora closes the door in her face.

* * *

The streets are spinning sickly as she rushes home, hand clamped around the folder. It is an anchor to a reality that seems to be slipping. That and the one other person who seems to remain unaffected, caught in the eye of this storm alongside her. In a dream, she pushes open the door of their apartment building; rushes down the corridor to his flat—

The door is ajar. There is something not quite right about that, her battered but still functioning intuition prompts. John is far too put together to casually leave his door unlocked like this.

She pushes inside. “John? John, are you here? I’m sorry but—”

The sound of tinkling glass has her enter his bedroom at a run, to find another scene from a fevered nightmare. John has knocked a vase from his dresser with a flailing arm as he is bent, almost over backwards, by a monstrous creature. Trailing bandages barely cover a desiccated body, skeletal hands are wrapped firmly around John’s neck.

A mummy, ripped straight from a Hammer Horror film, is choking her friend.

She doesn’t stop to think. There is an ornate standing lamp in the corner. She picks it up, hefts it like a lance, and charges the creature. It turns with the force of the blow, moans eerily, but releases John. He collapses to the floor, clutching at his neck and wheezing horribly. Clara swings wildly with the lamp, landing a solid blow. The Mummy stumbles but still reaches towards her with awful talons; takes a dragging step.

She is shouting now. An incoherent scream of rage she doesn’t hear until the lamp hits home for a third and final time. Every last ounce of strength is scraped together to bring six foot of solid wood down on the wretched creature’s skull. She even hears the crack. The creature reels, and then explodes in a blinding shower of sparks.

There is a long moment of stillness, John still fighting for breath on the floor near the dresser; Clara poised like a medieval knight with mace aground, adrenalin coursing. Then she drops the shattered remains of the lamp and runs to her friend.

“John.” Her hands are shaking as she touches his reddening face. “What do I do, how can I-I help?”

“I’ll be okay,” he croaks. “Help me… sit up.”

She catches his elbows, half dragging him up and over to a seat on his mattress. He sits for a long while, gasping down lungfuls of air. The marks of the creature’s fingers are livid on his neck. “Why?” he rasps eventually.

“Why?”

“Why… are you here?”

“Apart from saving your life, you mean?”

He rubs his sore neck. “Apart from that.”

She pulls the folder from her coat, sitting next to him on the bed to hand it over. “She doesn’t remember him.”

“What?”

It’s almost a relief to hear the confusion in his voice. “Dora. She doesn’t remember Ronnie. I turned up and she was like… a stranger. Talking about someone called Elias. She said they were _engaged_.”

“What?”

“I know. John, I feel like I’m going insane. The world is changing around me. And maybe it’s not the world. Maybe it’s me—”

“No. The pictures—”

“Are _your_ pictures. None of this started happening until I met you at that party.”

He stills at this. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe, if I’ve lost my grip… maybe you’re not real either. What—what are you doing?” For John has grabbed her hand, painfully tight, turning her palm up to show her healing wound.

“Real,” he says, letting go after a moment. Long fingers trace the outline of the Mummy’s hand on his neck. “Real. Don’t you dare start to doubt it, Clara Oswald. What is happening now to us is real.”

_And in her mind’s ear the words have a strange ring to them, like an echo. As if she has heard them before, somewhere else._

She shakes her head to clear the deja-vu. “Then what do we _do_. If someone is re-writing the world around us, _attacking_ us. What do we do?”

He has that strange faraway look; she’s not even sure he’s listening at first. “Us,” he says softly.

“Us what?”

“You said attacking _us_. But it’s never been _us_.” He touches a hand to his chest. “It’s been attacking _me_.”

“No – no the roboman—”

“Was waiting for _me_. I’d just moved into the building.”

“But the Martian warrior—”

“Regular shortcut through the cemetery you said, use it all the time. No trouble. Until you were with me.”

There is another long pause, brown eyes locked on blue. “Okay,” she says, eventually. “Okay. Answer me this then – why would television monsters want to attack _you_? A photo-journalist with delusions of grandeur, you said.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, _that_ is not the question.”

“Seems like an important one to me.”

“Why? You’re not the one being attacked.”

“Except I am. By proxy.”

“Hazard of keeping my company, it would appear." And then, with a suddenness that takes her breath away: "Want to stop?”

 _Don’t you dare blush, Oswald._ “No.”

“Good.” The merest hint of a smile, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s go then.”

“Go _where_? And I’m not really sure you should be walking about, anyway, not after that.”

“Just a minor contusion. Nothing to be concerned about. Or don’t you trust me?”

She sighs, giving in against her better judgement. “Well, you are the Doctor I suppose.”

“Yes,” he says, with that faraway look again. “Yes, I am.”

 


	9. The Ritz

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t slow his pace, storming down the twilight street. “To see you friend Dora.”

“Do you even know where she lives?”

He stops short, apparently having failed to consider this detail in his desire to start moving. “Er, I suppose not. But you do.”

“Yeah, but she’s not going to be there. She was getting ready to go out.”

“Oh. You didn’t tell me that.”

“You didn’t _ask.”_

“Didn’t think I needed to.”

“I’m _good_ , but I’m not a mind reader.”

“Ha. Telepathy. Might make things a bit simpler, I suppose.”

Clara shudders, without quite knowing why. “No.”

“Did Dora say where she was going?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Although—”

“Yes?”

“Although she did mention the _Ritz_. She said she’d tell me all about it when we next met.”

“To the _Ritz_ , then,” he says, turning dramatically on his heel to lead the charge in the opposite direction

* * *

“This isn’t going to work.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true. Look at us. We’re soaking wet, they’re not going to let us in like this.”

He looks her up and down, making her shift uncomfortably. “Okay,” he says, lips pursing, “you may have a point.”

She wishes she didn’t. The world felt less awful when they were racing down the street together. “So, do we just go back then, or what?”

“No,” he says, with a barking laugh, He grabs her hand to pull her onwards, into a dingy alleyway. It feels so natural that she doesn’t notice at first; his hand in hers. It is only as they consider the locked tradesman’s entrance that she realises with a start.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, a fruitless attempt to distract herself from this new development before her palm gets sweaty.

“Hold this,” he says, passing her his camera. She does as instructed, as he searches his pockets, eventually finding a piece of bent wire.

“Can you pick _locks_?” she breathes, but the answer is obvious as he inserts the bent pin. After a few moments there is the _snick_ of turning tumblers. “They didn’t teach you _that_ in the Army.”

“No.” He pushes open the door and raises his eyebrows. “Coming?”

Inside is the usual mess of service corridors; dingy concrete and fizzing fluorescent bulbs, a random assortment of damp carboard and abandoned service trolleys. “Figures,” Clara mutters, mostly to herself. “First time in the _Ritz_ and what do I get to see? The rubbish pile.”

“Here,” he interrupts, “this is what we need.” Two threadbare porters uniforms, hanging on a clothes rail.

“Great,” she says, but it’s all for show, they both know.

He passes her the smaller of the two. “Um,” he says, suddenly realising a problem.

“Turn around,” she instructs. “You watch that way, I’ll watch this…”

They leave their dripping day clothes on the rack. “The important thing,” he says, leading her back upstairs to the world of the guests, “is to look like we belong.”

“Uh-huh.” She picks up a pair of silver trays.

“What’s this for?”

“Looking like we belong. People never worry about someone who turns up to take away the rubbish.”

He scoffs, but takes a tray. They cross the lobby and enter the ballroom. No one questions their presence. The staff on the door even give John a friendly nod.

“Told you.”

Inside the party is just starting, clusters of well-dressed patrons scattered in the too-large space. Another waiter gives them a smile, moving past with a tray of canapes. “Split up,” whispers John.

She nods, moving over to the buffet table. Ostensibly to collect a couple of discarded glasses, catching fragments of conversation as she works.

“Of course, the dominant episteme…”

“Well, Jagger entirely _dominates_ —”

“… if it’s a question of morality...”

“ITV have nothing they can compete with, at least for the moment.” She stiffens, pretending to brush crumbs from the pristine white table cloth. In her peripheral vision a man she thinks she recognises; lizard-eyed and grinning toothily.

“For the moment,” answers a second man, with just a bite of warning in his tone. He is facing away, looking towards the doors. It takes a second for her brain to assemble the clues; she jerks with surprise as she makes the connection. The second man is Ronnie, still talking with a silver-spoon accent rather than the Cockney inflection she is used to.

“Don’t worry, we all know you’re going to bring about _great_ changes Mr Dacre. Ah. I do believe my good lady has arrived.” He waves across the room. Clara turns gently to try and see—

 _Dora_.

Walking across the ballroom, looking like a million dollars. Clara backs away quietly, over to where John is compulsively straightening dishes. “Dora’s over there. With Ronnie and that other man. I can’t get too close. She might recognise me.”

“Understood. Stay close.”

She watches him work his way along the table, accepting the empty glasses of other patrons. Waiting. He returns after a few moments, his own tray full.

“Introductions. Pleasantries. The third man is called Elias.”

“Her new fiancé.”

“I assumed.” They walk slowly towards the swinging double doors at the back of the room, through which other staff are moving back and forth.

“This is _sick_ , John. They were – they were happily _married_ until a few days ago. Now they’re greeting one another like strangers at a party.”

“I agree. We need to find out where this Elias is based.”

“What, like wait and follow him home?”

“No. He mentioned that they’re booked to stay here overnight, anyway. I want to do my snooping when he’s not likely to walk in and find me doing it.”

Clara glances back at the trio, Elias laughing at Dora’s joke, seemingly enchanted. “Like now, you mean?”

“Well, yes,” he agrees, “but as we don’t know where he’s come from to get here tonight.”

“They’re booked in, you said?”

“Yes?”

“So, the hotel will have a home address.”

“Might be a false one.”

“Better than nothing.”

He smiles. “Better than nothing indeed. Right. We need to get you back in your clothes.”

“ _Very_ odd way of putting it. And why?”

“You need to be a distraction while I sneak a look at their reservations book.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of this...”

“Yes, that sort of thing,” he says, deliberately missing the point, “but, you know, even louder and more annoying.”

* * *

“Ready?”

“I really hate you for making me do this, you know that?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I _do_. You’re the grumpy one, why don’t you do it?”

“Threatening Scotsmen? They might call the police. Attractive woman? He’ll want to save your day. Trust me.”

She refuses to blush, ignoring the buried compliment. “Okay, okay. But be quick, yeah?”

“Oh, quick as a wink,” he promises.

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and strides as masterfully as she can manage over to the front desk. “Er, excuse me,” she says. John, carrying a stack of papers towards the desk in an attempt to look officious, rolls his eyes hugely. She tries harder to summon the imperious tone required. “I _said_ excuse me young man.”

The desk clerk glances up, and smiles. “Oh, I’m sorry Madam. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m a guest in room two-seven-zero. I _explicitly_ requested an extra bathrobe and… well, there isn’t one.” Behind him, John slips into the office.

“Our apologies Mrs…?”

“ _Miss_ Frobisher,” she says, and to her surprise the young man blushes. “I hate to be a burden to your staff, of course, but I know your establishment _prides_ itself on guest experience. It has been a rather trying day and I was looking forward to a hot bath…” 

She is running out of bluster. _Come on John!_

“Yes, yes, of course Miss Frobisher… I’ll just go and ring for service. You can of course use the telephone in your room if you find you have such an issue in the future.”

“Yes, well, you know how it is, prefer the personal touch,” she puffs. To her immense relief, John reappears. Rather less reassuring, he proceeds to trot smartly back across the lobby, disappearing into the service area again. This was not part of the plan.

“Er,” she says.

“They will be along shortly,” reassures the clerk, “if you’d like to wait—”

John re-enters, clutching in his arms a folded, fluffy robe. “The requested robe for Miss Frobisher,” he says, only slightly out of breath.

“Thank you. Very quick.”

“Let me take it up to your room for you, Madam?”

“ _What?_ Oh, yes? Erm. Yes, thank you.”  She follows him across the lobby to the lifts. “Why are we not leaving?” she hisses, as the door closes behind them.

“He’s a resident,” John explains levelly.

“Okay. And your bent hairpin is going to get us in to his room?”

“Suite. And no.” He produces a large silver key from his pocket.

“Is that the _master key_?”

“Yes.”

“ _How_ —?”

“Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no lies.”

“What did you really do?” she finds herself saying. “Before this, what were you? Some kind of spy? I have to know, John. Before we get any further into this madness together.”

“Why?”

She goggles at him for a second. “Because I don’t know if I should trust you,” she says, honestly. “I don’t think I know who you are anymore.”

“What could I possibly _tell_ you that would convince you I’m trustworthy?” he replies, genuinely perplexed. “I’ve saved your life. You’ve saved mine. I’ve got your back,” he finishes solemnly, “and you have mine. Is that enough?”  

The lift _tings_ their arrival at the selected floor. He holds out his hand.

 _God help me_.

She folds her fingers around his and follows him out into the corridor.


	10. The Mistake

 

The entrance to Elias’s suite is as opulent as imagined. A pair of gilded chairs flank an impressive writing bureau. Full length mirrors, framed with rococo flourish, make the space seem even larger. Clara’s worried reflection meets her own eyes. “What are we looking for?” she whispers.

“I have no idea. I expect we’ll know it when we see it.” She stifles a groan.

There are three doors leading off the lobby. John puts a hand on the left handle, raising eyebrows in query. She nods assent. Thick carpet muffles their footsteps as they enter an enormous bedroom. There is little trace of the man who supposedly lives in these quarters. John surreptitiously opens a wardrobe door to reveal a couple of hanging suit jackets and one white shirt. Clara heads for the bedside table, hoping more telling effects might be placed in the small drawer. To her disappointment it is empty, save for a Gideon Bible. John crosses to make sure, equally frustrated—   

Both of them freeze at the sound of the en-suite toilet flushing.

“Bloody hell, mate,” calls a jovial voice from inside. “That didn’t last long. What did you fuck up this time?”

There is no time to run. John stares at Clara in horror; the game surely up.

She kisses him. Hard on the lips, knitting her fingers into his hair. She expects shock, recoiling horror even. Instead he kisses back, insistent, tongue brushing hers. She can’t tell if this is the most convincing performance of his life or… something else. His fingers curl around her elbows, pulling her tighter against him—

“What the _fuck_ are you doing in here?”

She breaks away with a stage-worthy gasp. “What are we doing here? What are _you_ doing here?”

“Who _are_ you?” John adds, sounding distinctly punch-drunk.

“Who am I? Mate, you and your bird are in the wrong bloody room.”

“What?”

“ _What?_ ”

“This is five seven three. Penthouse suite is the next door on the left. Can’t believe that idiot left the door unlocked…”

“Oh,” replies John faintly, blushing hotly. “Well, this _is_ an embarrassing mistake. Our apologies.”

“Ah, no, it’s… it’s fine mate. No harm done. Have a good night, won’t you Mr…?”

“Smith,” he replies. “Mr and Mrs Smith.” He takes Clara’s hand very firmly in his as they walk to the exit.

“Charmed,” says the man. His smile is still friendly, but he watches them all the way down the corridor to the Penthouse door. John gives him a cheerful nod as he unlocks it, ushering Clara inside.

He spends a good minute staring through the peephole before turning to her again. “He’s gone inside. Um, good thinking, by the way.”

“Thank God for the master key,” she demurs. “So, should we sneak out now or…?”

“Sneak out?”

She blinks. “Well, we can’t stay here, can we?”

“Why not? It’s not in use. And we’re in a good position to have another go at searching the room when our man pops out…”

“Are you _serious_?”

“Deadly.” He looks genuinely perplexed at her reaction. “Are you… scared?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m bloody scared. We’re… well, what if they kick us out?”

“A mummy tried to kill me in my own house. Robotic men and Martian warriors dog our steps and you’re worried about hotel _doormen_?”

She makes a frustrated noise. “Fine. Fine. When you put it like that…” She runs her hand along the bureau, twin to the one in Elias’s room. “Look at this stuff though.”

“Go on,” he says, “explore. I’ll keep a watch out.”

She nods, flicking the lamps to shed more light on the luxury of their surroundings. A grand master bedroom, hung with more gauzy drapes than she has ever seen in one place. A living room with a plush chaise-longue and comfortable sofas. The third door reveals an actual dining room with proper long table, high backed chairs and even sideboards of fine china. She half expects a mechanical butler to roll out on casters. The square footage is several times that of her flat.

She slips into the bathroom, to spend a few moments sorting out her mussed hair and smudged make-up, trying very hard not to think about the way his mouth moved against hers…

He is sitting on the thick carpet, his back against the door when she returns. “He’s still inside.”

She sits down next to him, shoulders to the wood. “What if there’s nothing in there?”

“Then we’ll find something else. Maybe at your friend Dora’s. Maybe wherever it is that Ronnie is living these days.”

“What if there isn’t anything, though? What if we _never_ find—?”

“Clara.” His hand has curled around hers again. “Stop.”

She looks down at their twined fingers, and feels the edge of something half-remembered. The sense that she has seen her small hand caught in his larger one before. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“How do you do it? Stay so _calm_ in all of this?”

He lets out a long sigh before answering. “I watched the world burn once. Saw an empire topple and millions die. For… nothing, really. I lost everything. I didn’t understand how I could have survived. How there could be pages after that bitter ending. But there were. There _are_. There is no ending, Clara. Only the next chapter in the story.”

Brown eyes find blue in the soft light of the lamps. “That’s very poetic.”

He shrugs, arm bumping companionably against hers. “Occasionally my foot does leave my mouth.”

She chuckles softly. “That’s where I’ve been keeping mine. Around you.”

“Yes, I had noticed.”

“I’m glad you were, y’know, able to look past that aspect of my personality.”

“Haha. The saving my life part definitely helped.”

“Haha.”

Their laughter has bought them closer together, her head almost resting against him. Some of the magic of their roam around London town seems to have crept into the room again; as if this time and place, this _moment_ is the only real thing in the world. “John?”

“Yes?”

“I’m… really glad I met you. You know. Despite all the terror and danger that seems to go along with it.”

“Thank you. I think.”

Her cheek is pressed against his shoulder now. A strange heaviness has settled on her chest; an inexorable tug she resists and resists. If she can just keep her eyes on the carpet, ignore the fact they are so close that his breath stirs her hair…

 “Clara?”

“Mm-hm?”  

“I’m… very glad that I met you too.”

_Damn him._

She looks up, and is lost. Her mouth meets his before her brain can cut in with the various reasons why this is a _very_ bad idea, and is short-circuited by sensation.

They break apart breathless, minutes later, hours; she isn’t sure.  His eyes rake her face, find whatever it is he is searching for, and he kisses her again. Pulls her into his lap, and she stops trying to rationalise whatever is happening now, gives herself over to the moment.

There is a muffled _thump_ as he manages to crack his head against the door frame. Her lips slip from his and there is a beat of panting stillness, where sanity might regain the upper hand. Instead, he stands, pulls her to her feet and leads her into the ridiculous bedroom.

The mattress is far too soft for her tastes, approaching the size of a small country. This is useful, as neither of them can seem to settle on a comfortable configuration. He lies down under the insistent pressure of her kisses, only to roll her over and trace a line from earlobe to collarbone that makes her shiver. She can feel his arousal; grins wickedly as he gasps at a ghosting touch of her palm. She flips him again, straddles him; teases him with butterfly soft kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, until he groans and captures her mouth.

Her fingers linger on the top button of his still-damp shirt. A line in the sand, she thinks; a step into something more. He is shaking slightly. “We don’t—?” she breathes.

“I want,” he gasps. “It’s just… been a long time.”

“I understand,” she lies, unbuttoning him deftly. And then, perhaps, she _does_ understand after all. Here is a different body to the one she is familiar with, with skinnier ribs and softer skin. Older, hairier, alien. _Now_ she trembles, on the edge of unknown.

“Stay with me,” he whispers against her lips, kissing her until the certainty edges away the fear. She pulls off her recalcitrant sweater, swiftly discards a bra that was chosen strictly for its structural capabilities when she dressed this morning. Not that he cares. She catches his eye and almost laughs at the wondering expression.

“This is just _me_.”

“You are beautiful.” He’s not the first man to have said those words, of course, but he might be the first she’s _believed_ as he traces the curve of her breasts like it’s an act of worship. It’s too much, too much; her hands find his trousers, tugging insistently until he gets the message and helps to remove the last of the layers between them.

His breathing is ragged against her ear. “Clara.”

“Shh,” she manages, rolling them over until he is on top of her, taking his face in her hands. She closes her eyes and kisses him, as he pushes inside. Gentle at first, almost delicate. She rolls her hips against him, making him moan softly. He gets the message, thrusting harder, fingers knitting with hers against the pillows almost painfully tight. His rhythm starts to fray; he bites his lip in concentration and that, of all things, is what tips her over the edge. Her knees squeeze his hips reflexively, and he is similarly undone.

He collapses against her, gasping and boneless. Her fingers curl in his hair, she presses a kiss against his temple. He meets her eyes after a moment of recovery, smiles—

And outside, down the corridor, a door slams shut.


	11. Supporting Character

John swears softly, jumping up from the bed. His movement seems to break the spell cast over them both; as the sweat on her body cools she suddenly feels very, very stupid. Naked and vulnerable in a stolen hotel room, thoroughly fucked by a man she barely knows. _A thief_ and _an adulteress._ _Nice job Oswald!_

She retreats to the bathroom, to clean herself as best she can and dress in privacy. When she re-enters he is doing up his belt, looking similarly wrong-footed.  

“I’m pretty sure it was Dora and Elias returning,” he says.

She swears. “I’m sorry—”

“Both at fault,” he says simply. “Are you okay to…?”

“Yes. Yep. Um.” There’s not a lot of point to straightening the thoroughly unmade bed. They slip out into the corridor. John puts his ear to the second door, listening intently, while she holds her breath.

“Yes,” he says, “at least two voices. Come on, we’d better get out of here.”

They take the elevator down to the second floor and find the service stairs to take them the rest of the way underground. Mercifully unseen, they escape onto the night-time streets of the city. She lets him lead, her head abuzz with self-recriminations until they are almost back home.

“Um,” she manages.

“Hmm?” He is similarly self-absorbed. 

“Do you think it’s safe. Your flat?”

“Possibly not.”

“I’d offer you a place to crash—”

“Probably not very appropriate,” he replies shortly.

“I know.”

“Well…”

“Well, then…”

“I’m sorry that didn’t—”

“I apologise for—

“Sorry, you go first.”

“No, no you were saying?”

She gives up. “Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Clara.”

She has half a hope he’ll at least watch her out of sight. His door slams shut instead, and her heart sinks. Never have the steps to her flat seemed so long. It is dark inside and she prays Tom is away at writer’s circle; that she has time to shower away some of the sweat and shame and make a more collected decision about what on earth to do next.

She hasn’t quite managed to push the key home when the door opens under her hand. _Shit, Tom_ _—_

“Who the hell are you?!” hisses the angry woman revealed in the doorway. “It’s almost bloody midnight, not time to be pissing about in the corridor!”

Clara goggles at the stranger, panda-eyed with smudged mascara and wearing a very familiar dressing gown. Reflexively she checks the number on the door. It _is_ her flat. “Er,” she manages, and her heart sinks as Tom appears in his underwear.

“Clara?” he manages blearily. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean, what’s going on? I come home and—”

“Is something wrong with your flat?”

“ _My_ flat?”

“Yes, you live just above us don’t you?”

“Oh, of _course_ you know where she bloody lives,” sniffs the blonde. “Regular caller, are you?”

“Gwendolyn, _no_ , you’ve got the wrong idea…”

“Or too bloody right!”

And just like that she has become the supporting character in someone else’s drama. She pulls the door shut on their shrieking row, and turns the extra spiral of the staircase. Her key fits the lock of this apartment too, somehow, and inside is the handbag she _knows_ she left on the sofa downstairs. Her work files are spread across a neat but unfamiliar writing desk. Like a woman in a dream she crosses to a bedroom. There is an ugly crochet bedspread she’d never have chosen in a million years, but the clothes hanging up in the wardrobe are undeniably hers.

She taps her fingers against her teeth, silent in the dark for a long moment, considering.

Five minutes later she is knocking on his door. He opens it with a scowl after several knocks, shirt untucked and somehow looking even more rumpled than when she left him.

“Clara? I don’t think—”

“Shut up. What flat do I live in?”

“What?”

“Just, answer me, damn it! Which flat? Who do I live with?”

“Flat five,” he replies. “You live with your boyfriend Tom. Clara, what the _hell_ is this?”

“Flat six,” she says, fighting to keep her voice calm. “By myself. Tom is apparently in a relationship with a blonde woman named Gwendolyn, who was wearing _my_ dressing gown when she answered what I thought was _my_ door.”

“ _What?_  Clara, no—”

“You think I’m making this up?!” she finds she is shouting. “You can go and check for yourself.”

He blinks a few times, processing. “I think you’d better come inside....”

* * *

“I’m sorry,” she says, after the third sip of brandy. She feels an intruder on his private space, as he moves back and forth with dustpan and brush, sweeping up bits of broken lamp.

“Stop apologising.”

“I just don’t want you to think this is something that I normally _do_ ,” she confesses.

He comes to a halt. “And that would be what exactly?”

 _Seduce a man on a stakeout and then bend reality to get invited back for a drink?_ She baulks at the thought of saying the words aloud. “I dunno,” she manages instead.

He frowns at this inarticulacy. “Right. Okay. Anyway, I think I’ve got all the glass up. How’s the brandy going down?”

“Well?” she offers, earning herself a flicker of a smile. “Are you going to have some?”

“Why not?” he replies, pouring himself a large measure from a cut-glass decanter. He hovers awkwardly for a moment, clearly struggling between the choice of his wing-backed armchair or the space next to Clara on the sofa. He opts for the later, but sits primly on the edge of the cushion, as if afraid she might explode. “You should probably stay here tonight,” he says after an age. “I’m not sure Flat Six is safe.”

“And your flat is?”

“No. But at least here together we have the advantage of greater numbers. And I don’t think anyone else has a key.”

“How’d the Mummy get in?”

He looks irritated. “I left the door unlocked for a moment when I was collecting a telegram.”

“Oh? Anything interesting?”

“About the job in Brighton. More precisely, the lack of one.”

“Sorry about that,” she lies.

“It’s fine. It’s probably for the best.” He gives her a brief, humourless smile. “Things that need my attention here, anyway.”

“Things,” she repeats, but he is too clueless to take the hint. She sighs softly. “I’m happy to stay. I can sleep on your sofa—”

“No, no, that wouldn’t be right. You can have my bed and _I’ll_ take the sofa.”

“Honestly, there’s no point in both of us sleeping badly. I’d feel bad if I kicked you out of your own bed.”

“I think I might insist on it…”

She laughs. “I think you might not _sound_ very insistent. Look, if you really want to be kind, I would very much like a bath.”  

“That I can arrange,” he says, and this time his smile, whilst brief, is genuine.

“Great. While you draw it, I’m going to pop upstairs and collect a few things.” He looks like the might be about to argue with this. “I’ll be five minutes,” she adds hurriedly, “any longer and you can come up to rescue me. It is your turn, after all.”

In fact she is six, and returns to find him with his foot already on the bottom stair.

“Good Lord, John, did you have a stopwatch?”

“Just a wristwatch.”

“I know, I was joking.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“Um… There’s a bath...” He is practically writhing with awkwardness.

“Oh good. Thank you,” she replies, taking pity and heading back into the flat.

“Towels,” he points, shepherding her through his bedroom.

“Yes, I can see. Um, thanks. I can probably manage on my own from here. Unless you want to join me?”

He remains far calmer than she thought he might. “Another joke.”

“If you like.”

“My… straightforwardness amuses you, doesn’t it?”

“Tiny bit, yes.”

“Most people find it annoying.”

“I’m not most people.”  

He takes a step forward. “And if I called your bluff?”

Something like excitement swoops, low in her stomach. “What do _you_ think?” she replies, looking up at him. “That I’d fold?”

“Not for a second,” he whispers, and kisses her.

She has to crane to reach him, almost over balancing. “You’re far too tall,” she manages, wrapping her arms around him to steady herself.  

“Nonsense,” he declares, mouth dipping to her neck again, to the spot he found earlier that makes her shiver. “You’re simply too short. Also, somewhat overdressed. May I be of assistance?”

“Only,” she replies, “...if I can return the favour.”


	12. Not a Word

Afterwards, bound together in a tangle of sheets, she strokes his hair. Still damp from the bathwater. She tucks an errant curl behind his ear.  

“What are you thinking?” he asks quietly, his thumb similarly tracing her cheek.

“Mmm. Mostly that just when I think I understand you, you surprise me,” she answers honestly.

“Oh.”

“Why? What are _you_ thinking?”

“That I might be able to trace some leads from the photographs I took at the BBC party where we met,” he says, and winces. “Sorry. Not very romantic.”

“No,” she agrees, still playing with his hair, “but probably the sort of thinking we should be doing. Rather than this, um, distracting each other.”

“Also,” he adds, as if he didn't hear, “that you are one of the most confusing women I’ve ever met.”

“Confusing?”

“I mean that as a compliment.”

“Oh, of course you do.” She gives him a gentle kiss on the end of his nose, letting him know this too is humour.

“No, I mean you’re kind and beautiful and clever. You’re good at what you do and people like and respect you. But you still don’t quite _fit_.”

“What do you mean, fit?”

“It doesn’t seem quite enough for you. Like, you’re waiting for something. Something else. Something different.”

She feels uncharacteristically nettled. “Isn’t everybody, really?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, you’re pretty confusing too.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Most men would stop at the kind, beautiful and clever part.” She suppresses a yawn. “I’m going to fall asleep soon, by the way.”

“Do you want me to go to the sofa?”

“What? No, don’t be daft.”

He relaxes slightly, knees bumping her shins under the sheets. “Good. Sleep well then, Clara.”

* * *

She doesn’t open her eyes when she wakes, not at first. She is alone in an unfamiliar bed but that doesn’t mean much; the world quite possibly rearranged around her while she slept. She tries to get her memories in order. Dora’s engagement, her lack of reaction to the photographs. The Mummy, the _Ritz_ … Her reverie drifts into something rather more X-rated. Did _that_ really happen?

_And Tom_ , her conscience prickles, _what on earth has happened to Tom?_ They’ve been friends for years, lovers for nearly half that time. She should be horrified at what has happened to him. To _them._ And yet _—_

“Good morning,” says John, and she opens her eyes. He is standing in the doorway, already dressed in another dark suit, steaming mug in hand. “I’ve bought you some tea,” he adds redundantly.

“Elixir of life,” she says, receiving it gratefully, “thank you.”

“When you’re alive I’ve got something to show you in the dark room.”

She takes her time to get ready, brushing out the waves in her hair from sleeping damp; applying eyeliner and lipstick hastily collected from her flat before going to join him.

There are about thirty photos arranged on the wall, all featuring the mysterious Elias. In most he is incidental, a background character, once cut in half by the frame. In seven he is more central: caught in expansive conversation with Gordo Jones; laughing heartily with Simon Tees; alone, sipping from a wine glass. Once again, she is struck by John’s talent with the camera.

“There’s about nine others in negative form,” he says. “I can develop them later. Who do you recognise?”

She lists the names she knows, taking them down to three photos where Elias is interacting with strangers.

“Right,” says John, “that’s my hit list. You need to talk to as many of the ones you know as you can. Try and get a picture of who this man is and how he’s ended up stepping into the life of one Ronnie Dacre.”

“What about Tom?” she asks quietly.

He rocks on his heels for a moment. “What about him?”

“Well, Ronnie’s not the only one who’s living a new life at the moment, is he?”

 “As are you,” he reminds her. “You can talk to Tom if you think it will help. That’s up to you.”

 “Right. Okay.”

“Let’s meet for lunch at the Italian place about two. Share out findings.” He checks his watch. “If you leave now, you should be just in time for work.” He frowns slightly at her nonplussed reaction. “Is there something I’ve forgotten?”

“Er, not exactly,” she manages. A long conversation about quite what is happening between them was never going to be John’s style, after all. She smiles. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

* * *

“You’re late,” he says, as she drops into the booth. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she says, “just a normal, busy day. I managed to talk to Sam the floor manager and Lisa from make-up. Both of them know him as Elias, the producer from _Forbidden Worlds_. Dating Dora for the past three months, as far as Sam knows.” She shakes her head. “How they’ve done this… they’ve got _everyone_ singing from their hymn sheet.”

“Not quite,” he declares, eyes shining. He pushes a photograph across the table of a thin young woman, slightly glassy-eyed in the picture. A wannabe model, she can tell straight away, half-remembering how to stand for the camera but awkward with it. “Dolores Bamford,” he says, “currently on the books of the Clayton agency.”

“She’s new to it.”

He nods. “She _was_ , I’m pretty sure, Elia’s girlfriend until about three weeks ago. I’ve got an address if you’ve got the time? Just off Hopkins Street, in Soho.”

“Not until after six,”

“Ach,” he taps his fingers, clearly frustrated. “I suppose I’ll have to be patient…”

* * *

It’s nearly quarter to seven by the time she reaches home. The rain is holding off, but a chilly wind is gusting down the street, slamming the door after her.

_His_ door is shut, resolutely locked under her hand. Annoyed, she suspects he has gone on without her. She hammers on the wood anyway. “John?”

To her surprise the door opposite opens in response. “Clara?”

“Oh, good evening Mrs. Winkings,” she says, stiffly polite. “I’m terribly sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You’re looking for Mr. Smith?”

“Er.” There seems to be little point in denying it. “Yes.”

There is a pause that sets alarm bells ringing; something in the fluttering movements of the old woman’s hands, her pale face. “Oh Clara, I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you… I know you’ve grown close…”

“What’s happened to him?” she demands, as blood roars in her ears.

“The ambulance took him about half an hour ago. He was alive when they left but they didn’t think his chances were too good…”

“Where did they take him?” Mechanical, direct. Superficial calm. “Mrs WInkings, please. Which hospital?”

“The London, I think. Oh, Clara I am sorry…”

“Thank you,” she manages, spinning on her heel and sprinting back out into the blustery night.

* * *

He is grey faced and unnaturally still when she finally sits at his bedside, but very definitely alive. She takes hold of his hand, squeezing his fingers gently. Behind the curtain the matron on duty swishes past.

“I hope you realise how bloody difficult it was to get in and see you,” she whispers. Unconscious, he makes no reply. “They think it was some kind of animal attack. Say you’ve lost a lot of blood and almost set a new record for stitches.”

She listens to his steady breathing for a while, in and out, and makes her decision. The admitting team have bagged up his personal effects, culled from the pockets of his slashed suit. She rifles through without guilt; wallet, spare lens, film, and a little black notebook.

She flicks through the pages of addresses, snippets of prose, poems and sketches. The heart and soul of one John Smith, she supposes; at least the parts that aren’t in his photographs. Her own face smiles up at her from several of the later sheets; the most detailed sketch on the final page of notes. Underneath he has written something in a language she does not understand. _Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma._ Spanish, if she had to hazard a guess. She says the words aloud, as best she can, in case they are a code for cracking.

He wheezes at the sound of her voice this time. “John?”

“Please God,” he whispers, “tell me you don’t speak Spanish?”

“Not a word,” she says, finding his hand again. “God, am I glad you’re awake.”

“It was… another Martian warrior,” he gulps. “I killed it, but not before…”

“Not before it nearly did the same to you. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Tougher than I look.”

“So it seems.”

“You… been to see… Dolores yet?”

She shakes her head. “I was looking for her address. I know you said Hopkins Street but I wanted a bit more to go on.” She gives him a crooked smile. “Also, I did want to make sure you were still going to be joining me on this case.”

“Of course. You might have to do… some of the legwork for a while though. Address is on the last page.”

The matron pulls back the curtains on these words. “You’re awake!” she declares. “Good. I need to check your dressings.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” Clara says, standing to leave before she is shooed away. She gives him a kiss on the cheek before she goes, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the nurse.

Outside, the moon is rising behind the tattered banners of cloud. She takes a breath on the steps of the hospital, flexes her fingers. The hunt is on.  


	13. Her or Me

A young woman answers the door, leaving the security chain in place. Tall and slim like Dolores, but with reddish hair in an unusually short pixie cut.

“Can I help you?” Her tone suggests she views this as unlikely.

“Hey, um, is Dolores in?” Clara tries.

“Depends who’s asking,” the redhead replies flatly.

“I’m a private investigator looking into a man named Elias.”

“No blokes here.”

“I know. But I was told Dolores might have some information about him.”

“ _Who_ told?”

“A… photographer friend of mine. Took some pictures of them together a few weeks ago.”

Redhead’s ears prick at this piece of news. “You have _evidence_ of them together?”

“Yes, pictures from a party.”

“Hang on.” Red closes the door briefly to, removing the security chain. It reopens, fully this time, and Clara steps inside. There are clearly a number of girls lodging here, the hallway festooned with drying stockings, cut out pieces of magazine work, and other bits and pieces that would probably make John blush.

“’Scuse the mess. I’m Cherry, by the way.”

“Jane,” lies Clara, “nice to meet you.”

“Dolores lives up here. I’ve been looking after her a bit since…”

“Since…?”

“Best she tells it, I reckon.” Cherry knocks on the door at the top of the stairs. “Blondie, you in there?” There is no reply. “Come on sweetie. I’ve got someone here you’re gonna want to talk to.”

Dolores opens the door at this. Paler, thinner than her photograph, with dark circles around her eyes. She looks wretched; sick. “Is it Petey?” A thin quaver of a voice.

Clara gives her an awkward wave. “’Fraid not. I’m Jane. I was hoping that we could talk about a man named Elias.”

Dolores visibly recoils at this. “Honey, it’s okay,” soothes Cherry, “she says she has photographs of you together.”

Dolores’ eyes are saucer wide. “You do?” she manages hoarsely. “You do….” She retreats inside, sitting on her bed, and Cherry indicates they should follow.

Inside the room is a wreck; piles of clothes, papers, empty cigarette cartons and bottles. The bed is the only clear space. Gingerly, Clara takes a seat. Dolores has curled up like a child, pulling nervously at the sleeves of her dirty cardigan. Something is clearly terribly wrong here. As much as she needs answers, it feels wrong to launch into an interrogation. 

“Dolores, you don’t seem very well.”

“I’m okay,” she whispers, still fussing with her sleeves.

“Do you… Do your parents know you’re here?”

She nods. “Papa is very proud of my work.” Cherry gives Clara a sympathetic sort of smile, pulling over a cut-out from a store catalogue where both girls pose with wide smiles. The picture seems to lend Dolores strength. She stops worrying at her clothes and fixes Clara with a steadier gaze. “I’ll be okay,” she says, “I just have to… figure things out.”

“What things?”

“What’s real,” she replies, blue eyes brimming with tears. “And what was just a bad trip.”

Clara pulls out the photograph of Elias and Dolores. “Do you remember this happening?”

Dolores fingers shake, ghosting over the face of the man she is laughing up at in the picture. “I d-did.”

“Who is he, Dolores?”

“A dream,” she whispers back, frighteningly childish once again. “A story I made up for myself to feel less lonely in this awful place.”

“ _No_ ,” says Cherry, frustrated, as if this is a conversation they have had many times before.

“He’s a real person,” Clara agrees. “What did you dream about him?”

Dolores’ shoulders shake. “That he was mine. That we were in love and roamed all over London together. That he took me to parties and hotels and kissed me and loved me, only me.”

Cherry rolls her eyes. “What did I tell you about sappy romances?”

“That I shouldn’t believe in them if I wanted to do well here.”

“And yet you still ate it up…”

“When did you meet Elias?” Clara tries.

“At a party. Just after we did the Debenhams shoot,” Dolores replies promptly.

“Where was that?”

“Shoreditch somewhere, I think. It was mostly models, some writers from the university. Some of the comedy boys who want to work for the BBC. We got talking, took a walk. He told me he was going to make it big in the city. I said I was going to make it bigger.” She smiles at the memory.

“What was he going to do?”

“He was a writer. Going to write a fantastic novel. A real epic, capturing the spirit of London in the new age.”

“He came from the city?”

She nods. “Kinda. He was orphaned in the war. Grew up in Spurgeon’s orphanage. With his brothers.”

“Brothers?”

“Yeah. I was never sure if he was joking or not, calling them that. They didn’t look alike.”

“Were they at this party?” she checks, tapping the photo.

“No, I don’t think so. They used to meet at the _Savoy_ the last Sunday of every month. I went along once… At least I think I did.”

“What happened?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Anything you can remember…”

“That’s the trouble.” She fixes Clara with a clearer stare again. “It’s like there’s two of me. Bits fade in and out. Sometimes I remember Elias and all the things we did together. And sometimes there’s other bits, house parties Cherry doesn’t think I ever went to, photoshoots that don’t match with my diary dates. A day out to the beach, skinny dipping in the sea, but no sand in my shoes...” She shrugs. “I took a tab or two from Petey. That makes it clearer for a while, but then it gets all muddled again.”

“It’s like the world is changing around you, and you’re the only one who remembers.”

“Yes,” Dolores agrees, slowly, “yes, like that. You’ve had it too?”

Clara nods. “That’s why I’m investigating. Elias has dropped into the life of a friend of mine and I don’t trust him.”

Dolores sniffs at this. “He was so nice to me. So kind. Until he wasn’t there anymore. Now everyone thinks I’m going mad.”

“You’re not mad. He really happened. Keep the photo, and move on. Do what you said you would.”

“… what I said?”

“Make it bigger than he does.”

Dolores blinks. “Who does?”

“Ah,” says Cherry, sadly. “I think that might be it.”

“Cherry? How long have you been in here?” She smiles, prettily, but vacant. “Who’s your friend?”

“Her name’s Jane, Dolores. Just wanted to say hi. I’ll check in on you later. Bring you some soup…” With that she ushers Clara out of the room.

“She needs help—” Clara tries, as the door shuts.

“Oh, like what?” Cherry snaps. “Electro-shock? I’ve seen what that shit does to a person. No way. Not Dolores. She’s getting better. It’s happening less and less. She’s just stressed out, is all, remembering all that.”

“Cherry…”

“I can look after her, okay? She’s _my_ responsibility. She’s coming back… It’s just going to take a little while.”

“Fine,” says Clara, after a beat. “If I find anything else, I’ll come and call again.”

“She’ll be okay,” Cherry repeats, escorting her to the door. She sounds as if she is trying to convince herself. “The photographers love the soulful look she’s got going on. She’s getting more and more bookings.”

“Right. Right," snaps Clara on the threshold, "because that’s definitely what _she_ needs right now.”

With that piece of withering scorn, she beats her retreat.   

* * *

 

The customary bunch of grapes are secure in a brown paper bag in her lap. Clara suppresses a yawn as she waits for the ward visiting hours to start. Sleep was hard to come by on the lumpy mattress of flat number six, despite the triple locked door…

She is surprised to find him sitting up in bed, looking rather less grey in the face than last night. His eyes light up as she approaches.  “Thank God,” he says, “I was going quite mad.” He digs into the grapes immediately. “What did you find out?” he manages thickly.

She fills him in on the disturbing details of her visit to Dolores. “We need to go and speak to someone at the orphanage I think. Find out more about his history.”

He nods. “And the _Savoy_ to see about these mysterious brothers.”

“Have they said when they’ll discharge you?”

He shrugs. “Who cares what they think? I can change my own dressings.”

“Ah, come on, don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not!” he huffs. “Ridiculous is all the fussing and mollycoddling they do here.”

“Oh yeah, that matron looks like a real softy.” She rolls her eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” She raises her eyebrows further. “I might have had a little walk last night, is all.”

“… Right.”

“I thought there might be something outside the ward window.”

“You’re three floors up.”

“I know, that’s why I thought I better investigate.”

“What was it?”

He looks sulky. “A pigeon,” he mutters eventually.

She stifles a laugh. “So, not likely to be any time soon then?”

“It’s got to be soon. Otherwise it’s going to be her or me.”

Clara leans back in her chair to sneak a glance at the formidable sister. “Even odds on that one, I reckon.”


	14. Both Ways

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s only temporary.”

“I’d rather go without it.”

“You _know_ that’s a bad idea. You’ll heal quicker this way. Get rid of it faster.” _I sound like I am reasoning with a toddler._

“I look stupid.”

“No, you don’t.” She considers him, head on side for a moment. “It makes you look distinguished.”

He gives her a black look. “It makes me look old.”

Her mouth twitches. “You _are_ old.”

“And _you’re_ bloody cheeky.” He reaches out with the offending walking cane to tap her smartly on the shoulder. “Come on, then. Might as well not waste the little time I have left.”

“Where are you going?” she asks, as she limps off at high speed. “You’re not walking the whole way? You’ll rip your stitches, cane or not. Come on, let me get you a taxi…”

He limps on a few paces more, but pain wins out over pride. “Fine.”

“Do you need to—?”

 “Stop fussing.”

It is a mercifully short journey back to the flat. John winces his way inside, refusing to let her carry his small bag. He is looking decidedly pale by the time he crosses the threshold, however, and deigns to allow her to make some tea.

“What?” she says, unsure of his expression when she returns with the tray.

“Nothing,” he replies, clearly under the impression his beard hides his smile. “Thank you.” He coughs, and makes a pained expression, touching a hand to his ribs. His fingers are bloody when he withdraws them.

“I _knew_ it was a bad idea letting you discharge yourself.”

“Just need to change a dressing, Clara.” He shrugs awkwardly out of his jacket, making as if to take himself off to the bedroom.

“For goodness sake,” she growls, “sit still.” She unbuttons his blood speckled shirt, takes the spare dressing in hand. It is the first time she has seen the extent of his wounds, and she winces in sympathy. “ _Jesus_. It played noughts and crosses on your chest, didn’t it?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” He presses the fresh pad down firmly onto his oozing stitches. “Can you tape that in place?”

She does as requested. “Is that about right?”

“Yes, thank you Nurse Oswald. Very good.”

“Oo, alright, no need for the _sarcasm_ —”

His kiss catches her off guard, mid-sentence, long and lingering.

“Was that alright?” he says softly when she breaks away, suddenly looking far more vulnerable than he managed bleeding and shirtless.

She nods. “Yes. I wasn’t sure if… Well, what this—” She stops in the face of his polite confusion, and kisses him again. “Yes.”

“Good,” he manages, and then, confusingly: “You should go.”

“ _What_?”

“You might be in danger here.”

“Oh, right, fine. So, I should just pop off upstairs and let you deal with any monsters that come breaking down the door by yourself then? Maybe you can beat them to death with your walking stick?”

“If it comes to it.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Clara—”

“ _No_ John. That’s my final word on it.”

“I can’t let you risk your life for—”

“You don’t _let_ me do anything,” she says, laughing, “it’s nineteen-sixty-five and I am _not_ some damsel in distress. This is _my_ choice. Are we clear?” 

He returns her hard stare for a long moment, still looking as if he might argue. “Crystal,” he says eventually.

“Good.” She settles down next to him on the sofa. “Now, tell me something I don’t know.”

“What?”

“About you. Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yep, anything. Middle names. Ha. Your birthday. Favourite… _jam._ I dunno. Just share.”  

There is a very long pause. She resolutely avoids looking at him, at his scowl of confusion, waiting out the awkwardness.

“Raspberry.”

“John Raspberry Smith? _Interesting_ choice.”

“No, that’s my favourite jam.”

“I know, John, I was being facetious. Sorry.”

“Or marmalade,” he continues, after a beat. “I think I’d prefer that on toast, given a choice.”

“Really?”

“ _Clara_ …” he says, exasperated. “Why do you _care_?”

“Because I want to get to know you. Is that okay?”

He digests this information for a moment. “Yes,” he says at last. “Yes.” 

She lets out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding. “Okay. Good. First question, then. Why’d you leave Scotland?”

“War,” he says simply. “My turn—”

“What? No—”

“This goes both ways, Clara, or it goes nowhere.”

She isn’t sure if he means merely the conversation or the whole tangle of their relationship. She swallows. “Okay.”

“Why did you leave Blackpool?”

“Work. And… adventure.”

“Mmm. Have you found it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it what you imagined?”

“It’s _my_ question.” She considers her options. “Were you ever married?”

“Yes. Were you?”

“No. There’s only been Tom, really...” _Before you_. “What happened?”

“She died. In the war. Our children too.”

There is a moment of gasping shock before she can make her mouth move. “ _God_ , John, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says calmly, “That’s not a question. And it’s your turn to ask.”  

She draws a shaky breath. “Do you want to talk about them?”

“No. I think about them. Everyday. And that’s enough. Clara…” He sighs, and she fears his next words. “Why are you still here?”

She almost laughs with relief. “Because I’m not going to leave you in danger. Why do you think that is?”

He ponders this for some time. “You’re brave and stupid. Like all young people. And if I die, you face whatever is doing this alone.”

A nod. “Partly that,” she agrees. “And partly… I feel alive when we’re together. D’you understand? This feels _realer_ than any other part of my life.”

“Mmm.” Lips purse as he considers his next question. “What do you think happens if we solve it, then?”

“Solve what?”

“This mystery, whatever it is. When it’s over, what happens next?”

 “I’m… not sure. Dora has her Ronnie back, I suppose.”

“And you your Tom?”

_It’s my question_ , she wants to say, to turn his searchlight stare away from her. “No,” she answers softly instead. “I don’t think that would be fair to anyone.” His face is infuriatingly inscrutable. “Maybe we keep going. Investigating, I mean. Smith and Oswald Agency. Private investigators of the paranormal.”

 “Ha, that sounds like one of your TV shows.”

“It does, doesn’t it? I should pitch it.”

 “You’d like your own show?”

“Who doesn’t want to be the boss?” She smiles at the thought. “John?”

“Yes?”

“Can you kiss me again?”

“…Yes.”


	15. Spurgeon's Orphanage

The staff at Spurgeon’s have done their best, but the imperious neo-Gothic brickwork of the orphanage makes for an intimidating children’s home. At least there is grass, out in the courtyard, where a bunch of scabby-kneed little boys are playing cricket.

Miss Joan, softly spoken and surprisingly helpful in setting up a meeting with the matron, turns out to be about a decade older than Clara was expecting. Her hands flutter anxiously as she talks; her eyes opened just a fraction too wide.

“Like a whipped dog,” mutters John as they enter a green-tiled waiting room.

“Former resident?” Clara whispers back.

“Hmm. Perhaps. This place is giving me the creeps and we’ve only been here ten minutes.”

The matron keeps them another ten, uncomfortable in hardbacked chairs and the overwhelming smell of wood polish.

“Doctor Smith,” says John, shaking her hand firmly when she finally shuffles out of her office. “This is my research associate Miss Oswald.”

“I know who you are,” replies the Matron. “You’re here to talk about Elias Jones and his brothers aren’t you?” She’s Scottish too, about John’s age, with the same carapace of cantankerous armour by the sound of things.

“Yes Ma’am,” John replies smartly, which seems to mollify her a small amount. They take the proffered seats in front of her scarred wooden desk, awash with paperwork.

“I remember them well. Three of them bought in from one of the bomb sites in Clapham. They’d been living rough there for a while. The local boys had been bringing them food and clothes. It was only when one generous soul decided to give them a pair of his boots that the jig was up. His mother went to get them back, realised the sad extent of the situation. Goodness knows how long they’d been living like that. No memory of their family; of anything really. Only of those games they played with the local boys in the ruins.”

There is something rather well-rehearsed about this story. Clara wonders how many times the Matron has told it before.

“Anyway, they did very well here at first. You’d never have guessed their awful start after a few weeks. Polite, clean and helpful little boys. Elias, Ezra and Josiah. We had hopes they would be adopted quickly, and they were. A nice young couple they seemed; a curate and his wife…Couldn’t have children of their own…”

“What happened?” prods Clara.

“They went quite mad. Seeing things that weren’t there. Terrible things. And somehow she—the wife—she got it into her head it was them… That those little boys were doing it.”

“Were they?” John, direct as ever.

The Matron jerks her head irritably. “How could they be? They were just three little boys. That’s what we thought. What I—what I said at the time. _How could they be_? So, they came back. Back here. Back with the other children.”

“Then what?”

“Things were fine at first. They fit right in once again. Polite and helpful as ever. Always such bright, kind boys. K-kind.” Her head jerks irritably again, her right hand balling into a white-knuckled fist. Clara’s stomach turns over uncomfortably, a trill of horror. “ _But they weren’t_.”

“What do you mean—?”

“Little Archie Sullivan, the blind boy. He lived and died in these walls, poor soul. Lost his sight to bomb shrapnel, we said. But I remember… _I remember…_ such blue eyes. Bright blue eyes like big buttons, before he stole Josiah’s toy train. And Annie Knight, later on, in her wheelchair. But her room; her room in the taking-in book. She lived on the second floor. How could she? How _could_ she when she used that monstrous big chair?” She is rocking back and forth now, a trickle of blood between her fingers, cut by the nails biting into her palm.

“Stop,” says Clara, convulsive, in the face of the woman’s obvious suffering. “ _Please_ —”

“They make you believe anything they want,” says John urgently. “The world twists around them. And you don’t remember, _can’t_ remember, until suddenly you find an _edge_. A piece that doesn’t fit.”

“There are two worlds in my head,” says the old matron, “and even now, decades later, I don’t always know which one is real. You’re investigating those boys.” It isn’t a question. “There’s no point. You can’t stop them. No one can.”

“We have to try.”

“No, you have to _stop_. Before they kill you too. Or worse.” She shudders.  

“Matron,” says Clara urgently, “it’s different for us. John and I… we can _remember_. Their changing of the world doesn’t seem to affect us in the same way. I promise you, we’re going to put a stop to all of this.”

“Oh Clara,” says the old woman, dabbing at the wounds on her palm now, with a spotless white hanky. “I’m terribly sorry, but they already have you bound up in their web.”

Clara opens her mouth to deny, but John is faster. “What makes you say that?”

“Because,” says the Matron, “this is the second time I’ve seen you in this office. We’ve all had this whole conversation before. And neither of you remember.”

* * *

_What do we do?_ she doesn’t say. In the soft lamplight of John’s front room, it all seems so far away, so unreal. That’s part of the problem, she supposes. The mind doesn’t want to dwell on the strangeness of it all. The horror.

“Are you okay?” he asks at last.

“No,” she says, “how could I be? We’ve met before and I don’t remember. How can…?” She tries again. “I don’t think I could ever forget you. And yet I did… I thought that I’d been with _Tom_ all that time and—”

“This isn’t easy for me either,” he says softly. “How much of _my_ life is a lie? The last three months; the last six? Or the last thirty _years_? There are faces that I see every time I close my eyes, Clara. Screams that I can hear from a war a long time ago. Are they _real_? Or some horror given to me by those three creatures?”

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Gingerly she takes his hand in hers. “I didn’t think.” He says nothing in return, but squeezes her fingers gently. “I don’t know what we can do now,” she says honestly.

“I do,” he says grimly. Blue eyes find brown. “We go to the Savoy. Last Sunday of the month.”

“What if that’s what we did before? What is that's how-?”

"There isn’t another way. I have to know.”

“We should leave clues," she stutters out after a moment. He merely looks confused at this. “So we can find each other again, if we have to.”

“Why… why would you want to do that?” he manages.

She raises an eyebrow, suddenly dry-mouthed. “Does it really need saying?”


	16. Mr and Mrs Smith

For once it isn’t raining. She steps out under a cornflower blue sky; leans against the stairway parapet to wait for him. He is very nearly late.

The throaty rattle of an approaching scooter breaks the dawn calm. Her head snaps around to see what on _Earth_ is making such a racket at this time of the morning.

Of course, it’s him. Helmet eschewed in favour of looking cool, although he’d never admit to that. He rolls to a halt in front of her, all smiles and the smell of gasoline. “Coming?”

“On that thing? With you?”

He tosses a helmet at her. “Better?”

She puts it on; jumps down the stairs and swings her leg over the leather seat behind him. “I suppose so.”

He kicks the scooter into gear and they are away, speeding from the city. Her arms are wrapped around him, grip tightening with every swerve he makes, weaving through the morning traffic.

* * *

They walk the chalk ridge of the South Downs together, where the blue sky meets a landscape of rolling green. The sea sparkles at the foot of the hills, another world away from the smoke of London. Different again to the familiar Pennines of her northern home, altogether craggier cousins.

This is his goodbye. She understands that without the need for him to say it. Wordless, her hand finds his as they wander. Finally, she can no longer stand the strain of holding back from him. She kisses him breathless on a hilltop, until the stiff sea breeze drives them back to the scooter.

They eat dinner in Brighton, fish and chips from the sea front. She wastes her money on the penny falls at the amusements; his camera clicks on and on, capturing a hundred different Claras. She buys a different sort of memento, sticks of rock. _Souvenirs_ , she doesn’t say, _from the French._ _To remember_.

* * *

It’s a far cry from their last hotel liaison. The elderly double bed sags quite substantially, rolling them together in the hollow. She unbuttons his shirt. First her fingers trace the still-livid scars on his bare chest, then her lips. She lets him watch her for a long while, heavy-lidded, burning her into his brain in his own way. Finds his mouth in the end. His lips are soft under hers; too gentle.

“Do you want me to stop?”   

 Fingers knit almost painfully into her hair. “Not ever,” he says hoarsely. “But I am… scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you.”

“Daft old man. I’m not going anywhere. Not if I can help it. And not without a fight.”

He almost smiles. “I believe you.”

“And yet it isn’t enough.”

He kisses her properly at last. “Everything ends eventually,” he says against her lips. "And it's always sad." 

“Maybe. But haven’t you heard it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?”

“Have you tried it?”

She bites her lip. “Yes,” she says softly, “…I think I must have.”

“What makes you say that?”

Her heart is swollen in her chest, beating so fiercely her body practically shakes with each pulse. “We were together,” she manages, haltingly at first. “You and me. We went to Spurgeon’s together, before. I must have lost you.”

He is perfectly still for a moment; she can almost hear his brain whirring to put the words unspoken in place. “I don’t understand,” he says eventually, not quite the reaction she was looking for. “ _Why_ …?”

“Since _when_ was it a question of logic?”

“Hm.” His beard twitches. “I suppose you’re right. _Te amo sin saber como, ni cuándo, ni de donde._ It makes more sense now. _”_

“To some of us… that speak Spanish…”

He lowers his gaze, unable to look her in the eye as he translates. “I love you without knowing how, or when or where.” He clears his throat, and risks a glance at her face. “It’s, uh, a poem by a Chilean politician... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

She blinks away the prickling salt in her eyes. “The opposite, John,” she manages thickly. “The opposite.”

* * *

“And what name is the room booked under, sir?” asks the desk clerk.

Clara squeezes his fingers.

“Mr and Mrs Smith,” he manages. “I made the reservation earlier this week.”

“Ah, yes. Room three oh seven. I see here you’re joining us for dinner this afternoon too.”

“Uh, yes. Yes, that would be correct.”

“Excellent. Well, here’s your key…”

The booked room is another breadcrumb, they agreed. A substantial bill, something less likely to be overlooked or hidden; the kind of money a company would take the time to track down and reclaim if unpaid. A clue, if the world tears them asunder, that they were really here. Together.

It’s a good argument, although she doesn’t think either one of them really believesit. Perhaps, then, it is merely an excuse for _this_ : his travel bag hitting the floor as the door shuts behind them, his picking her up in one fluid movement as she kisses him hungrily. An excuse for blindly trusting that he will pilot them both to the bed, as clothes are roughly tugged aside. For fucking with feverish urgency, as if they hadn’t tumbled _out_ of a bed together mere hours ago.

* * *

“What if we don’t lose?” she whispers, afterwards, legs still tangled with his. “What if we win? What do we do then?”

She expects him to tense and stutter. Instead, nose-to-nose, he manages flippancy. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think I could do with a holiday.”

“Ha! Where would we go?”

“Anywhere you want.”

“Just me you and that scooter, eh?”

“I might hire a car. Or we could catch a train.”

“How exciting. Sleeper car to Scotland?”

He scoffs. “I was thinking a little more luxurious…”

“Ooo, like the Orient Express?”

“Perhaps…” He squints down that long nose at her. “Sounds appropriate, somehow, doesn’t it? For us.”

She nods, holding him tightly. _Anywhere_ , she thinks. _Anywhere as long as it’s with you._


	17. The Brothers

The three brothers are already seated at a large round table when they enter the dining room. There is nothing discernibly unusual about them. They are all tall and thin, but beyond that there is little to suggest kinship.

Clara leans back, as if to better take in the description of the day's specials. “I think the blonde one’s Ezra,” she says to her menu. 

“Why?”

“The redhead has the letter J monogrammed on his pocket square.”

John wrinkles his nose. “Ridiculous.”

“Of course, it’s his fashion choices that make him an oddity. Not, you know, the mind control…”

“Sssh!”

“If they can hear us over here we’ve got even bigger problems. Did you have a plan for this part? Other than ordering a _very_ expensive dinner?”

She suspects she already knows the answer.

“I thought… I’m not sure.”

“Oh, _good_.”

“Clara? _Clara_! What are you doing?”

But she has eyes now only for Elias. Striding across the room determinedly, leaving John standing mute at their abandoned table. A few diners glance at her, passing distraction; potential entertainment. Most ignore her, absorbed in their own food, conversations; worlds.

Not the brothers. As one, they turn to look at her.

“Elias Jones?” she says, fierce as she can manage.

“Clara Oswald,” he replies, exchanging a glance with his companions. He licks his lips. “Dora’s friend, right? She isn’t dining with us today I’m afraid.”

“Good!” she snaps back. “Because you… you have no right to—” Righteous anger trips her tongue.

“No right to _what_?”

“You stole her,” she replies flatly. “She was happy. Her and Ronnie, _they_ were happy. And you… you _did_ something—”

She flinches at a sudden weight on her shoulder, but it is merely John’s hand. Support or warning, she can’t tell which. “Clara,” he says urgently.

_Now_ the brothers look rattled, which only makes her more annoyed. “ _I’m_ talking to you,” she says, “I’m telling you, this has to _stop_.”

“Clara—”

“John, what—?” she exclaims, turning to him in annoyance. Her anger transmutes into fear as she realises _why_ he has come to her assistance. Not the misplaced chivalry she assumed: behind her the restaurant has frozen. It’s far more terrifying than it should be, a hundred people stopped dead in the middle of their dinners. Mouths still open, spoons in hands. As if time itself has stopped.

“Stop it,” she says, dry mouthed. “Put them back.”

“You’re making a scene,” says Josiah curtly.

“We don’t _like_ scenes,” agrees Ezra.

Elias is working from a different script. “What is _he_ doing here?” he says, jerking his head at John. “He’s a photographer. He’s supposed to be in Brighton now, taking pictures of Mods and Rockers fighting.”

“How do you know that?”

Elias waves a hand irritably. “I made that. It was my part of the story. To keep him out of harm’s way.”

“The job got cancelled,” she says, “so whoever you _think_ you’ve got under your thumb clearly isn’t—”

“Erm,” coughs John. “Technically it was cancelled by me.”

It is her turn to stare.  “ _What_? But you said—”

“Conversation for another time?” he hisses. “It doesn’t matter how I’m here,” he continues, more grandiloquent, “I am. And I’m telling you, we know what you’re up to. You have to stop. _Now_.”

Much as she’s loathe to admit it, there is something _impressive_ about John in anger. Eyes aflame underneath those beetling brows; long finger jabbing in accusation. For a moment the spell seems to work even on the brothers.

Then Elias smiles, chuckles lightly. Ezra and Josiah take up the laughter, slightly less convincingly. “Yes, that’s about how it went last time. You still don’t seem to have worked out a key detail. _How_ , precisely, are you going to stop us?”

She tries to keep from her face the feeling that the bottom is dropping out of the world. “We know what you’ve done.”

“And yet that proof is surprisingly tenuous when presented to a sceptical world, isn’t it? People tend to believe what they remember. What they _saw_ happen with their own eyes. Photographs can be doctored. Other people _lie_. But the pictures in your head, well, they’re the truth of it all aren’t they?” There is something very wolfish in Elias’ smile now. “And we can make them think whatever we want.”

“Not everyone. Not us,” says John hoarsely.

This time the laughter from all three is genuine. “Oh, John Smith.” Josiah spits the name, as if it is a bad word. “If only you knew.”

“Sadly,” says Elias, a bite of warning in his tone, “you’re never going to. Oh dear. I think we’re going to have to send you through. I hate doing that. It’s so… uncivilised. But I can see you’re going to be a recurrent problem if we continue to be kind.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” snaps Clara.

“Don’t worry,” says Ezra, “it’ll all be clear _very_ soon.”

* * *

Clara opens her eyes to a sodium orange sky. The air smells of smoke, and damp cold is already working its way into her very bones.

She sits up from the wet pavement, trying to fill in the gaps between the abortive confrontation at the _Savoy_ and here. Nothing is forthcoming. The last thing she remembers is the brothers advancing on her and the Doctor—

She blinks.

John. Yes, that’s better. Her and _John_. He was with her, hand on her shoulder.

He isn’t here now.

She shivers, and pulls herself together. No sense freezing to death lying on a pavement. She stands, frowning in confusion. There is a strange _whistling_ sound, getting louder. She turns on the spot, wondering where on Earth the sound it coming from—

And then the world explodes.

One moment she is standing, the next she is on the ground clutching her head in agony, as bits of brick and mortar thud to the ground around her. Her ears are ringing terribly; her legs don’t seem to be responding to orders from her brain in the aftermath—

A hand pulls her upright. “Come on!” someone shouts, dragging her away. “There’s another one right behind!”

It is John, but not as she knows him. This version is beardless and gaunt, pulling her along roughly. “You’re hurting—” she manages, but the words are lost in the awful boom of another explosion. He knocks her to the floor.

She can barely breathe underneath him, his body a shield from the falling debris of the second bomb. After a horribly long moment he rolls aside. She gasps down grateful lungfuls of air, coughing at the smoke and dust. “Thanks,” she creaks when she can, “I think.”

“Are you okay? Can you walk?”

“Not sure about the former, but I can probably manage the latter.” She lets him help her back onto her feet. “Where _are_ we? The last thing I remember—”

“Confronting the brothers’ in the _Savoy_?” She nods. “Me too.” A few more paces on. “Clara, this is going to sound insane, but I don’t think this place is _real_.”

“It _feels_ real,” she says, rubbing her bruised elbows.

“Oh, I don’t mean it can’t hurt us,” he corrects. “Like the Warrior. And the Mummy. I just mean that it’s not a real place.”

“It looks real though. Like London. Only… well, in the war.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t believe in time travel.”

“Why not?”

“Well, if it was possible don’t you think we’d be overrun by people from the future?”

She digests this. “Ok, but how else can you explain all this?”

“I can’t.”

“Oh.” She tries a different tack. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. Away from here was my main concern.”

"Ok." It seems, at least for now, as good a plan as any. She falls into step beside him, marching onwards north.  


	18. Bigger on the Inside

Clara is lagging three steps behind now, limping badly.

“Just a bit further,” he says again.

“No.” She stops, finally admitting defeat. “John, I’m sorry, but I think we’re going in circles.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We’ve been down this street before. I remember that burned-out bicycle shop.”

“Ack, no, it’s your mind playing tricks on you,” he lies. “We’ve got to keep moving.”

“Why?”

“It isn’t safe here.”

“Nope,” she agrees, sitting down on some tumbled masonry. “But I don’t think we’re walking out of this—”

The slither of brick, ending in the surprisingly delicate tinkle of smashed tile interrupts her. There is a beat of silence, broken only by the crackle of the distant fires. “Probably just settling,” he whispers.

“Uh-huh,” she says, struggling to her feet. There is another crash. A third, closer to them. His hand engulfs hers.

“When I say run…”

“Yep,” she agrees, trying to see through the smoking dark.

They come, stumbling, from the ruined houses at the end of the street. Humanoid, but dragging misshapen and mangled limbs, all of them wearing gas masks.

“What the _hell_ are _they_?”

“A nightmare,” he whispers. “Run!”

She tries, she really does. But her legs are bruised and tired; lungs full of smoke and dust. The gas-mask zombies are slow but inexorable.

“Clara, _please_ ,” he begs, as she stumbles again.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, “John… I’m so sorry…”

“Stay with me, Clara. Please.”

She coughs. The smoke is getting thicker here. The creatures are forcing them back towards the incendiary bomb site. She bends, hands to knees, trying to catch her breath. She cannot bear his desperate expression.

“No,” he mutters, to himself or her she isn’t sure. “Not like this. _Not_ like this.” He is casting about in the wreckage for something; a weapon perhaps.

“Hide,” she wheezes. “We have to… hide.”

He nods. “Come on.” She takes his hand again, lets him half-drag her on. The houses are flattened here, pancaked piles of shattered debris with barely a wall left standing. Short of digging themselves into a pile of bricks there is no kind of shelter.

“Over there.”

“Where? What? Clara, no—” She ignores him, limping over to the battered Police Box, half buried in broken stone. “We can’t hide in a _box_!”

But they are rapidly running out of options. She scrabbles at the bricks around the door, rattles the handles. “Locked. Do you still have that bit of wire?”

“Maybe.” He rifles through his pockets, pulling out the oddest assortment of junk.

“How did you even _fit_ all that in there?”

“Ouch!” He withdraws his hand from his pocket. “It _burned_ me.”

“What did?”

More carefully he puts a hand back into his pocket, using his coat sleeve to withdraw a small silver key. “This,” he says, redundantly.             

She presses a finger to it, gingerly. Still warm, but touchable. Like a woman in a dream she takes it, puts it to the lock of the Police Box. To their astonishment, it turns like it was made to fit.

She pulls the door but it seems stuck. “I don’t understand,” she breathes, glancing nervously back down the street. Mercifully still empty.

“Push it,” he says.

“But it says—” she begins, pointing to the panel on the door. He reaches past her regardless, and the door swings inwards under his hand.

“Empty?”

“I think so…”  He takes a step inside. And then, somehow, another. Surely the box cannot be that deep?

She follows him into the darkness. Except it isn’t, not any more. Lights are turning on around a huge room; a low hum of waking power audible. Words fail her, jaw hanging in astonishment at the cavernous space revealed. Roundels of glowing, growing light. A huge central column, pulsing orange. She has just enough presence of mind to close the door behind them.

“John?” she quavers, voice thin and flat in the space inside. She needs to see his face, to know that he, too, is seeing this.

“What _is_ this place?” he breathes, turning to face her at last. “How can it be—?”

“—bigger on the inside?” she says in unison. “I have no idea. I— _John_!”

His legs seem to have given way under him, pitching him to the grated floor. She isn’t quick enough to catch him, falling to her knees at his side instead to shake him. “John! _John!_ ”

He is unconscious.

She taps his cheek, over and over, harder than she means to in her panic. Pinches his ear to no effect. Her hands rake over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing, reassuring her that he is alive at least. “What _is_ this place?” she whispers, cradling his head, trying to work out what on _Earth_ to do next. _Alice down the rabbit hole has nothing on me_ , she thinks. _Remember when your biggest problem was that blockhead on camera two not listening to the director?_ It seems like a lifetime ago; like a dream.

“It’s called the TARDIS.”

She almost jumps out of her skin. “John? Oh thank _God_ , I thought—what are you talking about?”

“Clara.”

“Yes?”

“Do you trust me?”

She blinks; no idea where this latest line of enquiry is going. “Yes. Always.”

He reaches up, hand gently cupping her face. “Good. Then _let go_.”

The words are like an off-switch; the world is instantly dark, as she collapses into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

She is sitting in the armchair of the console room, the huge leather one near the bookcases on the mezzanine. It’s a comfortable chair, reminding her of all the softness that seems to have drained out of her life over the past day or so. It’s a little piece of home.

She frowns, eyes still closed.

It’s also a source of much friction in her relationship with the Doctor, as he is remarkably possessive of the piece of furniture. The fact that he has not only allowed her to sit in it, but _sleep_ in it, speaks volumes as to the level of peril she has, presumably, just escaped from. It’s all a bit of a blank at the moment, though the ache in her limbs and the catch in her chest are a giveaway.

“Are you still asleep?”

She doesn’t open her eyes at the sound of his voice from across the console room, not yet. “Maybe.”

“Ah, so you’re dreaming.”

“I’m in the armchair so I must be.”

There is a pause. “I see your sarcasm has made it back intact, then.”

“Yes.” More silence. Apparently, she’s going to have to do the digging. “Back from what?”

“There is a particular species of bird on your planet,” he says, and she knows it’s going to be something she won’t like. Anything that starts with this much preamble is something he thinks will make her angry. “It lays its eggs in the nests of other birds.”

“Yes, Doctor, I know what a cuckoo is.”

“Ah, good,” he says, and she resists the urge to open her eyes just to roll them at him in all his superciliousness. “Well, there’s a species of alien that does something rather similar. The Tenza. Their young drift through space until they find a habitable world, where they latch onto something. Take their form and assume the place of their child.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Sounds horrible. What happens to the original?”

“Oh, no, they don’t switch someone _out_. No, they just slip _in_. The parents don’t even realise. Huge psychic powers and perfect perception filters. They can make people believe anything they want. They bend perceptible reality around them so they fit in perfectly.”

“Why?”

She can practically hear the cogs turning. “It’s what they do. They live out their whole lives with their adopted species. When their physical body fails, they return to space. I’ve never been quite sure if they make more of themselves there or if they’re on some sort of reincarnation cycle. Always learning. Always something new.”

“You make it sound like regeneration.”

“Perhaps it is, a bit.”

“So,” she says, “what do the space-cuckoos have to do with us?”

“The Tenza,” he corrects, a shade sharp. “I want you to imagine a child that lands on a world at war. A being that finds itself wandering a battlefield, a blitzed city. Normally the Tenza are pretty good at finding someone who _wants_ a child, for whatever reason. But the whole city is a psychic _mess_ of terror and hate and mistrust.”

She burrows slightly deeper into the armchair. “That doesn’t sound like wartime Britain. I thought it was mean to be the finest hour? Everyone pulling together and waste-not-want-not-ing.”

“Hah. Well, there was some of that, yes; but people always forget the nasty bits, don’t they? The ‘vacuees that went hungry, the spivs and the black-shirt sympathisers. You were a nation at war, Clara. It wasn’t just the other side that did terrible things.”  

“Leaving the comparative history aside,” she says brightly, “what happened to the Tenza?”

“There wasn’t just one of them,” he says. “I don’t know why. They normally travel alone. Too much power in one place otherwise. They might start to feed off each other’s woven fantasies. Bend reality around them a little _too_ much.”

Her skin is prickling most unpleasantly now. “Enough to get your attention?”

“Enough to start breaking down causality. Three brothers landed; stumbled unwanted and unloved through a broken city for five years. The kindness they craved came from other little boys, rough and tumble playmates. They taught them how to pick pockets and raid pantries; to take the little trifles you want in life and trust only your own kind. A terrible lesson, for a Tenza. And when those boys grew up they realised what they could do with perception filters and psychic powers. Whatever they wanted, for as long as they liked, with no consequences.”

Clara opens her eyes at last, blinking even in the low light of the console room at rest. “I take it that’s where we came in?” She can half-remember, picking out a costume in the TARDIS wardrobe to explore nineteen sixty-five, backcombing her hair _on the apple box in the bathroom_.

_No, wait. That’s not right._

He climbs the stairs slowly, like a man on the scaffold, coming to rest in front of her. “How much do you remember?”

“Not much,” she confesses, staring without seeing. “Just fragments, at the moment.”

“Time,” he says, as if that’s any kind of explanation. “Unless…?”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you don’t want to remember.”

“Why would I not want to remember? Doctor? What do you _know_? Don’t you dare lie to me. Not about this.”

He makes a pained face, realising his mistake far too late. “I just… we were on Earth for a while. Months. We didn’t know who we were. We had… other lives, Clara. I just thought you might not want—”

“No,” she says stonily, “you thought I might not _like_ and that you’d save yourself some grief.”

He raises his hand, placatory. “Alright, alright. Forget it.” He grimaces. “Poor choice of words. I just meant—”

“I know,” she says, softer. “What are we going to do about the Tenza?”

“What does anyone do to disrupt teenage hi-jinks?”

“Call the parents?” she guesses.

He nods. “Close enough. George should be here any minute.”   


	19. Clarity

George turns out to be short and slight, with a halo of gingerish hair tufting his bald head. It’s hard to say exactly what she _was_ expecting, but a softly spoken Londoner who blinks like a sleepy owl when he speaks wasn’t it.

“I’m sorry,” George says, “for any distress we have caused you.”

She nods. It’s hard to accept an apology when the crimes are still vague and half-remembered. “What will you do?”

“I must make them aware of their true nature. It is time for them to move on.”

“And the people whose lives they’ve mucked around with? What about them?”

George exchanges a glance with the Doctor. “They will be returned to their normal selves. The timeline will heal and they will take their places in history as they should.”

“Will they know what happened to them?”

“No.” George blinks. “Should they?”

“I don’t know,” she says. The Doctor’s frown offers no clues. “It feels like we’re deciding for them. Do we have the right?”

The Doctor shrugs. “We didn’t set this chain in motion,” he argues. “We can only end it. Compassionately. Do you have a better idea?”

Once upon a time he would have thrown those words at her as a challenge, all self-righteous sarcasm. Now, he says them soft. It’s a genuine question. She bites her lip, trying to think. “No,” she admits. Her smile twists at the corner. “Sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones…?” she offers.

He nods. “But you still have to choose.”

George blinks at the two of them, uncomprehending at their moment of shared understanding. “Shall we begin?” he says.

* * *

 

The timing has to be precise, apparently. The TARDIS hovers in limbo, the scene from the _Savoy_ playing out on screen until the right moment arrives.

“Sadly,” says a lizard-eyed man, toe-to-toe with her past self, “you’re never going to. Oh dear. I think we’re going to have to send you through. I hate doing that. It’s so… uncivilised somehow. But I can see you’re going to be a recurrent problem if we continue to be kind.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”  

“Don’t worry,” says the blonde at his side, “it’ll all be clear _very_ soon.”

A third man has pulled out a large carpet bag. Undoing the clasps, an unearthly wind blows. Watching on the TARDIS screens Clara can see table clothes and napkins flapping. They pass unnoticed by the other diners in the restaurant, who remain impossibly still.

“What _is_ that?” her past self says.

“Where your story ends, I’m afraid.” The first man waves a hand, and the bag seems to be _dragging_ their past selves towards it. It would be an entirely comical effect were it not for the genuine terror on their faces.

“Hold on!” shouts the not-Doctor, trying to grip a rounded table with one hand and Clara with the other.

“John,” she gasps, fingers slipping, “I’m _sorry_ …”

“No, no, no, no!” he shouts. “Clara, _please_. I can’t lose you. I _can’t_ —”

“Then don’t! Find me,” her past-self commands, as her hand slips from his, “and _remember_.”

In the psychic amplifier of the TARDIS Clara can almost hear the echoes of her thousand fractured selves in those words, a clarion cry to recall not just her, but who he is, who he should be.

_Run,_

_run,_

_run you clever boy._

_And remember,_

_remember me._

_Be a doctor_

There is a lead weight in her stomach, watching John’s anguished face on the TARDIS screen, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. “Clara,” he whispers, fingers still outstretched. With his other hand, he lets go; falling willingly into the bag.

There is a beat of silence, broken by the lizard-eyed man clapping his hands together. “Well—” he begins, and stops at the wheezing, groaning sound of dematerialisation. The other men look around in confusion as the tablecloths flap once again, this time in the breeze of the TARDIS’s arrival.

The Doctor, the real version in the present moment with her, the one that is carefully avoiding her eyes, clicks his fingers. The doors of the TARDIS open, and George steps out into the frozen moment.

“Do we—?”

“Stay here,” commands the Doctor. “We don’t want to risk getting caught in the psychic fields they’re generating.”

“Right.” She studies his profile for a long moment, before transferring her attention back to the screen.

“Who are you?” says the first man.

“I am as you are,” George replies simply, spreading his hands.

“What does that—?”

But the question is lost in a flash of blinding light. Even in the safety of the TARDIS Clara can feel the rippling power of the moment, a spreading pulse of pure _clarity_ that drives her to her knees. It is not a pleasant feeling; most akin to moments of heart-sinking realisation when the world is not quite what you thought. The conversation overheard, the moment of self-reflection after an event where you wish the world had preceded differently.

_Is it though? Or is that just what some perception filter wants me to think in this moment?_

_I’m not sure I like the Tenza. This is all too complicated._

“Clara?” says the Doctor, crouched next to her. “Are you ok?”

His fingers touch briefly at her wrist and her stomach lurches horribly with the _weight_ of her unfiltered emotions, a complex welter too tangled to fully unpick. And she can tell, for once, from the sudden flush in his cheeks, that something similar has happened to him. All their carefully constructed walls are swept away in the psychic blast, and she wishes she could find the right words…

“I’m fine,” she lies instead, accepting his proffered hand.

On screen, the three brothers are also on their knees. Elias—she remembers his name at last—raises his face tearfully. “I’m sorry,” he says, “we didn’t know.”

“I know,” replies George, “but now you do. And now it is time to go home.”

There is a long moment of silence. Then, as one, the men nod. Elias, ever with a flair for the dramatic, turns his palms to the sky. He throws his head back and simply disintegrates. In one moment he holds the shape of a man, and then in fleeting seconds his body is blown away; dust in the wind. The Tenza are gone.

Around the restaurant, the chink of cutlery on china plates resumes, the chatter of diners. Clara is open mouthed in shock. “Is that _it_?”

“I think so,” the Doctor replies. He flicks a switch on the central console, avoiding looking at her again. “Shall we?”

* * *

Clara resists the urge to check her watch yet again. It is a little after nine, and becoming evident that the Doctor has decided to skip a Wednesday.

She isn’t surprised, and it isn’t without precedent. She opens her laptop and checks her work emails half-heartedly. Nothing new to attend to, for once. Her books are marked, her lessons are planned. She taps her fingers against her teeth, puts the laptop aside and goes to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.

She isn’t sad, she tells her reflection in the kitchen window. She just feels a bit empty.

Returning with vague thoughts of combing through new exam specifications, she takes a sip and loads up a browser instead.  Her memories of nineteen-sixties London are still hazy, half-remembered fragments from dreams of being on the studio floor at the BBC; smoky clubrooms and wet streets.

The search bar beckons. The cursor blinks. _Forbidden Worlds_ , she types.

The engine happily provides a whole series of links; official sites, fan works, art pages. She clicks on a Wikipedia article, scanning through the various headers, coming to an abrupt halt in the _Production History_ tab.

Her own face is smiling at her, one of the massed ranks of staff in the photograph. _Initially commissioned by Gordon Jones, _says the picture caption, _from season two_ _the show was helmed by husband and wife production team Ronnie and Dora Dacre (front row centre)_.

Her heart seems to have swollen inside her chest, beating in her throat. She takes another, larger, sip of wine and clicks on Dora’s link.


	20. Loose Ends

His bathtub really is too small for two. He’s ended up hunched at the plug end, awkwardly twisting to avoid the taps. Foam in his hair, dripping down his beard; bubbles almost up to his shoulders. It’s a wonder they haven’t flooded the place. She giggles, despite herself, and he raises foamy eyebrows.

“Have I amused you, Miss Oswald?”

“Close your eyes,” she says, in response, “before you get soap in them.”

He does as she asks, and she tips a jug of warm water over his head, making him flinch. “I suppose I deserved that,” he says when he can.

“Uh-huh,” she manages, trying to settle back amongst the froth, knees knocking his instead. He considers his options, comes up with a handful of soap. “Don’t even—!”

He flicks the glob at her regardless, chuckling. His laughter turns to full on peals as she attempts to retaliate in kind. He merely deflects the foam, catches her arm to stop her from reloading. Watery physics, combined with the strange inevitability of magnetic attraction, finds her sliding underneath him again. Erotic as the situation may be, they’re one slip away from accidental injury.

“Shall we?” she says, with a flick of her eyes towards the bedroom.

“Good plan.” Curiously unabashed, she watches as he steps out of the tub and dries himself briskly. He catches her roving eye after a moment and stills, suddenly self-conscious. “What?”

She merely extends a hand, inviting him to help her out of the tub too. He does so, and then gasps in surprise as she embraces him again, standing on tip-toe to press her body against his. His fingers dig into her hips, surprisingly strong as he lifts her into a more comfortable position. She wraps her legs around his waist as he carries her to his bed—

Clara wakes, gasping, the heat of arousal swiftly replaced by a burning shame. She sits up in bed and turns on the lamp, massaging her eyes with slightly shaking hands. Three-oh-seven, the alarm reads in burning bright numerals between blinks. Thursday morning.

She runs her fingers over her lips, as if the ghost of his kisses still lingers there. It wasn’t just a dream, of that much she’s sure. Another memory; of an altogether different calibre than those of the studio floor or the Flamingo Club. His offer of a memory wipe is suddenly making a lot more sense. The realisation freights bitter anger. She reaches for her ‘phone, tempted to ring the TARDIS right now.  _And what would I say?_ _Was it really that bad you wanted to erase it? You seemed to be enjoying it enough at the time!_

She rehearses the angry recriminations in her mind; pummels her pillow until the desire to punch his stupid face subsides. Of all the _ridiculous_ ways to have come to this…

A bone weariness settles on her, and she turns back to sleep in spite of what dreams may come.

* * *

She is rushing to find a set of worksheets for a Year Eleven study support in the English cupboard, only to discover the TARDIS parked inside instead. She rolls her eyes at the unfortunate timing and pushes open the door.

“Clara,” he begins.

“Doctor,” she cuts across. “I’m glad to see you, but you have to move. I need a set of literacy grids from the back of the cupboard and your time machine is in the way.”

He looks confused. “I thought your lessons finished at three?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’d be _amazed_ at how often I hear that.”

“Well, you look like you could use a break. Why don’t we pop off for a bit? I can drop you back—”

“No.” He looks genuinely hurt and she sighs. “I mean, I have to finish this first. Okay? I’ve got it all planned out and I don’t want to lose my thread.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he affirms, “step out and I’ll move her so you can get your sheets.”

She expects him to slip away, she really does, but she hears the TARDIS materialise back in the cupboard moments later and apparently stay put for the hour of revision class.  When she steps back through the doors he is working away at the console, ridiculous magnifying spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He removes them to look her up and down. “Done?”

“Done." She runs her hand across the console to reassure herself that yes, this is real. “You missed Wednesday,” she says, trying not to let it sound like an accusation.

“Got side-tracked, sorry. The mysterious case of the disappearing pyramids on Abydos. Turned out to be a Pharaonic despot with a matter-manipulator and a misplaced sense of humour. All sorted now.”

“Right…” She twists a dial on the console, earning herself a sharp look. “Look, Doctor, I think we need to talk about what happened with the Tenza.” She almost cringes, prepared for sharp rebuttal.

He nods instead, avoiding looking at her again. “I thought you might say that. I take it you remember…?”

“A lot more, yes.”

“Ah.” He studies the time rotor for a long moment, as if it will offer some clarity on the whole situation. “It’s important to remember,” he says softly at last, “that who _they_ were is not who we are.”  

She ignores this. “Did you go and see? What happened after we left?”

Another century-long pause, filled with the click and whirr of the idling console. “No.”

“I did,” she admits. “I looked them up. All this ancestry dot com, online heritage research stuff, it made it so easy.” She taps on one of the console keyboards, bringing up a video of Dora. Not the blonde bombshell of nineteen-sixty-five this time, but the old lady she eventually became.

“I started out as a junior researcher,” says Dora, “and I didn’t expect to continue, really, not after I got married. But I had a friend, in the early days of _Forbidden Worlds_. Clara, her name was. She’d come to London from Blackpool. Convinced me to keep trying when Gordo Jones decided to pass the programme on. She was killed, very tragically, in a bus accident before season two filming." Tears still sting the eyes of her friend, decades later. "But I never forgot her and her advice…”

The Doctor remains in silence after the clip ends. “George tied up the loose ends, then.”

“Is that all we were? Loose ends?” She taps again into the keyboard, bringing up an advert for a recent retrospective art show. “Do you recognise these photographs?”

He cocks his head, taking in a housewife with her baby in a pram, cigarette dangling. A dock worker in a flat cap. And Clara, posing with an ornate lamp-post on the South Bank. “Yes.”

“Your photographs were kept. They used them as part of a recent art exhibition on the social history of the nineteen-sixties. Doctor, those lives that we had… they didn’t just _feel_ real. They _were_ real.”

“Perhaps. But if John Smith lived then he also _died_ , Clara, when we stepped aboard the TARDIS.”

She tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach, understanding the words unspoken; the line he’s redrawing between them here and now. “And nothing of what he was is part of you now?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “No,” he says.

She studies her feet for a while, until the lump in her throat is gone. “Okay then.” _Click-click_ go the switches on the console. She still can’t quite look at him. “So, where are you going to take me today?”

“Ooh, lots of options.  Depends on what you fancy. There’s the Deep Space Listening Post or the hyper-gamma waterfalls of Parsons Five?”

“Waterfalls sound nice,” she concedes.   

“Your wish,” he says, flipping the handle of the time rotor, “is my command.”


	21. Reverie

The waterfalls are wonderful in the truest sense of the word; great crystalline structures over which streams of coloured plasma flow like turbulent water, within an immense cave system. It’s practically psychotropic.

“Ah, well you’re not really seeing the best of them,” he says, when she mentions this. “The human visual range being so limited after all.”

“…Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

He strolls ahead, in that slightly shambling way he has when he’s waiting for the next adventure to turn up; ignoring her as she dawdles to better look at the flowing fire.

If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was playing it safe.

They round a corner, and a security guard twitches to attention. “Excuse me,” he says, “visitors should wear their passes at _all_ times.”

“Ah, yes, sorry,” bluffs the Doctor, flashing the psychic paper.

“No, no, it's quite alright. Enjoy your stay on Parsons Five, Mr Beetle.” He doffs his cap to Clara too.

“Beetle?” she queries, as they walk on.

“Yeah. I’m George and you’re Ringo.”

She chuckles. “Ah, _Beatle_. I see.” She considers his choice. “And _I’m_ Ringo? Really? What happened to John Smith?”

“Felt it was time to mix things up a little,” he lies blandly.

“Right. Of course. Can I pick the next one then? Something a little less—” But whatever she intends is lost in a terrible shrieking noise from the crystal cave ahead. They run instinctively _towards_ the sound, like salmon against the sudden stream of evacuating tourists.

Inside the cave a hysterical woman being restrained by a very confused security guard. “My son,” she is screaming, “it took him!”

“What took him? What’s happened here?”

“It-it came from the _wall_ ,” stutters the guard.

“What came? Which wall? This one?”

As the guard struggles to articulate, Clara, momentarily forgotten, walks over to the emergency alarm. A tremendous howling starts as soon as she presses the switch. 

“What the hell did you do that for?!” snarls the Doctor, hands clamped over his ears.

“Evacuating civilians,” she snaps back, “what else?”

“Ach,” he growls, “you’ve probably scared it _off_ now—” He comes to an abrupt stop as she grabs the front of his coat.

“Her _son_ ,” she says, flat calm belying the strength of her grip, “it took her son. I don’t want it, whatever _it_ is, to take any more children. Do you?”

She lets go, ignores his theatrical brush down. “No,” he says, a tad sulky.

“Good. Get her out of here,” she instructs the guard, who doesn’t need telling twice. “We’ll handle it now.”

“Oh, we will, will we?” mocks the Doctor.

“Shut up,” she returns roughly. “And stop pretending you don’t know _exactly_ why you brought us here.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Enlighten me.”

 _It’s a test_ , she doesn’t say, pretending to ignore the question. _What you always do whenever I get too close to those chips of ice you pretend are your hearts._ A way of making sure she is still up to the job: a proper no-holds barred adventure. 

“What do you already know about this?” she says instead. “What stories have you already heard about monsters in the crystal caves?”

“Ah,” he says, “Well…”

* * *

“What did you do on your Thursday night, Miss Oswald?” she mutters to herself. “Bit of marking? Cheeky pub quiz? No? The bait in a megalomaniac’s trap for a crystalline space entity, you say?”

 “I _can_ hear you,” says the Doctor’s voice in her borrowed earpiece.

“Good,” she hisses.

“I’m not a megalomaniac.”

“Right! Because hunting a possibly centuries old, phase shifting predator with nothing more than a pair of sonic sunglasses and some stolen walkie-talkies in no way screams delusions of grandeur.”

“Just keep walking. I think it’s interested in the plasmoid energy you’re emitting. If we can walk it into the geode I can render it physical.”

“How can you tell it’s interested?”

“Just trust me. And don’t turn around.”

She sighs, prickling fear dancing down her spine. “Why?”

“I said don’t.”

“You realise nothing is more likely to make someone want to turn around than saying don’t turn around. Right?” She picks up the pace.

“Not too quick! Don’t want it to lose you.”

“Don’t want it to _eat_ me,” she returns. She can see the sparkling cave ahead, either cut into or carefully lined with geodes. A flickering light is making the crystals shine… a flickering light emitted by something _behind_ her. The skin on her back crawls; she tries not to break into a run.

“That’s it,” he says soothingly, as she steps into the geode. “Just come and stand over here behind me now…”

She blinks and the scene slips; the geode transforming into a marbled hotel lobby in her mind’s eye.

 _“What could I possibly tell you that would convince you I’m trustworthy?”_ says the Doctor, the strange bearded version of her hazy memories _. “I’ve saved your life. You’ve saved mine. I’ve got your back,_ _and you have mine. Is that enough? Clara? Clara?_ ” His face swims, beard dissolving. “Clara!”  

“Just a-a-” she tries, putting a hand to her forehead, trying to clear her vision. Too late, she realises his shout was a warning. The crystal creature, made physical by the amplification of the sonic sunglasses inside the geode, is leaping towards her claws outstretched.

* * *

She wakes to the gentle beeping of a machine that sounds suspiciously like a heart monitor. Moving to sit up she gasps in pain. It feels like she has been kicked by a horse. “What happened?” she croaks.

He is sitting at her bedside, hunched and miserable looking. “You got hit in the chest by a phase shifting predator from hyperspace.”

“Oh,” she wheezes. “I thought so. Did I survive?”

“Barely. Don’t try to move for the moment. You’re low on…”

“Low on…? Low on what?”

“Blood.”

“Oh.” She decides to ignore this unsettling revelation for the moment. “How did we escape?”

“I reversed the polarity of the geodic amplifier.”

“Oh?”

“I disintegrated it,” he translates. 

“I’m sorry. I know that’s not… what you would have wanted.”

“Probably for the best. What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Before… you seemed…” He gropes for the right words. “Not yourself?”

She sighs. “I was remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“John Smith.” She tries to keep her tone light as she studies the ceiling of the TARDIS med-bay. “It was like a flashback.”

“Ah.” _Beep-beep-beep_ goes the heart monitor, possibly a tick or two faster than previous, filling the silence.  “I’m sorry. It will happen less often with time. Or—”

“Or what?”

“Or my offer still stands. You can forget him entirely. If you want.”

She studies the ceiling some more. “I don’t want to,” she says at last.

“Why?”

“I’m sorry. I know it might be easier if I did. But… they say a man dies twice. Once, when he goes out of the world. And then again when no one remembers him anymore. John was… funny and kind and _sad_ and he tried to make the world a better place. He died saving it and he deserves to be remembered. Just like Danny Pink.” 

The Doctor looks stricken at these words. “You make him sound very selfless. I don’t think it was quite so noble a sacrifice. He couldn’t bear to lose _you_.”

“Well, you’ve said it yourself. That happens sometimes.” She stares stubbornly at the ceiling.

“Clara…”

“Doctor.”

It is his turn to sigh. “I should let you get some rest.” With that, he beats a retreat, leaving her alone with the beep of the lonely heart monitor.  


	22. Fly Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been such a long while until I felt able to post this. I don't like endings, and finishing this fiction made me feel very sad. I was scared I wouldn't be able to write Whouffaldi againafter the end of S9. 
> 
> I don't feel that way now, and so here is the last chapter. An ending, but also the beginning of something too :)

She wakes, with no idea how long she has been asleep. The pain in her chest is considerably lessened. Disconnecting herself from the monitor, she risks swinging her legs out of bed. The TARDIS lights are low and she feels like an intruder in her dark corridors, colder than she is used to.

“I hate it when you do this,” she says, to him or the machine facilitating his sulk she isn’t quite sure. Perhaps both. “Stop pushing me away.”

A purring hum in response, but no more. The corridors are shifting around her, leading her eventually into the library. The lifetime works of John Smith are spread across the long table, with an almost empty glass of something the smells distressingly like turpentine.

She picks up his journal, her own face looking back at her. Thanks to the TARDIS, the words John had written underneath are readable now. Her fingers trace over the ink.

_I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

It’s as good a summary of the strange bond between her and the Doctor as she’s ever read. She sighs in the dark and closes the journal, padding out of the library to try and find him elsewhere.

* * *

This room she has never seen before. Chalkboards line the walls, covered in the Doctor’s dusty scrawl. It’s almost illegible, scuffed in places as if he has moved up and down, erasing, re-writing. Dates and names and places: _Clydebank 1941; Baranable SoT43; Sicily 1943; Aliganza SoT751; Caen 1944_ … 

“Doctor?”

He jumps at the sound of her voice, chalk still in hand.  “Clara?” he checks.

“Clara,” she confirms. “Are you okay?”

“That was going to be my question.”

“I’m okay,” she replies, “feeling much better. What are you doing? What _is_ this place?”

“I was… ah, thinking,” he says, as if that’s any kind of answer. “About what you said. About dying twice. All the names and faces John remembered, I was trying to find out if they were real or not.”

She blanches. “Like his wife and children?”

“They were killed in the Clydebank blitz… At least, that’s what I remember.”

She’s almost too afraid to ask. “Did they?”

A shrug. “Does it matter? There were plenty that did. Somebody’s wife. Somebody’s babies. The names… the faces that I have in my head? I don’t know. I _think_ Elias was drawing from Trenzalore. To make it feel real. I can’t quite unpick it all. Trying…”

She takes the chalk from his unresisting fingers. “Doctor, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“You were right,” he says; normally a cause for jubilant celebration. Here and now she just feels horribly guilty. “I wasn’t being honest with you earlier. I’m not John Smith but who he was…is a part of me. I-I accept that.”

So many names on the chalkboards, so many losses. The sheer number of them seems to press down upon them both. She forgets, forgets the weight he carries around with him. Even she is fooled by that grumpy carapace, his armour of disagreeableness. Underneath it he is raw as an exposed nerve; forcing him to confront the reality of their nineteen-sixties sojourn suddenly feels like an act of cruelty. 

“This isn’t John,” she says softly. “This is the Doctor trying to bear all of this. John let the page turn and the past stay in the past. He moved on to the next chapter.”

“No, he didn’t. He watched the world through a lens, left it where it couldn’t hurt him until he met Clara Oswald.”

“A version of her,” she corrects.

“Yes…” He is very still for a moment. “I suppose we have that in common as well.”

She has no reply to this cryptic nonsense. “Well, this Clara is telling you, come away now and let this be. Please?”

“I thought that you were dead,” he says instead.

“What?”

“When the crystalline entity hit you, I thought—”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m fine. I’m _fine_.”

“One day you won’t be.”

“One day neither will you. In the end, one of us will have to go.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want you to either. So, let’s not think about it now, eh? Please.” Her hand has, seemingly of its own accord, reached out to cup his cheek. “Let’s just… fly away somewhere. You and me.”

“Fly away…”

He nods. His fingers fold over hers, bringing her hand to his mouth. Blue eyes rake her face, and she _remembers_ that look, sat on the floor of the _Ritz_ hotel. She leans forward and kisses him softly, before her brain has really registered what she is doing. 

It is different to how she remembers, and not just because of the absence of his beard. He is _colder_ than he should be. She can taste, very faintly, jelly babies and not a lot else. _He’s an alien_ , she thinks. She’s always known it, of course, but it’s the difference between thinking a thing and experiencing it first-hand.

His fingers curl around her elbows, pulling her closer. This is more familiar, and it makes her knees tremble just as it did in nineteen sixty-five. She deepens the kiss, expecting him to pull back at any moment, to break apart.  

“Fly away,” he says again, against her mouth.  

Her hand finds where his shirt has come untucked instead, inside his jacket. Fingers ghost across the bare skin of his back as she arches into his body, standing on tip toe, trying to even out their difference in height. It feels so familiar, like they’ve done this before—

She breaks the kiss. “Doctor?”

He nods. 

“Just checking,” she says.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Stereophonics song of the same name [https://youtu.be/90dl2gR6mD8] and dreameater1988's fabulous 1960s AU photo manipulation [http://archaeologue.tumblr.com/post/148219855855/dreameater1988-twelve-clara-60s-photographer].


End file.
